


Rogue One: Dark Forces: The Scarif Extraction

by GofyTomcat1



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rebellion Era - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Force-Sensitive Jyn Erso, Kyber Crystals, Post-Battle of Scarif, Post-Rogue One, Rescue Missions, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Survivor Guilt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:47:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 36
Words: 99,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25247122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GofyTomcat1/pseuds/GofyTomcat1
Summary: (Due to significant rewrites, this is a re-post of my original draft of this fic, which has since been deleted)***It is a dark time for the Rebel Alliance. Though the Death Star plans were successfully stolen by Jyn Erso and her team of ROGUE ONE commandos, Imperial agents have retaliated in kind, unleashing the might of the battle station upon the tropical world of Scarif.Unable to reassert contact with Jyn Erso, the Rebellion seeks the skills of KYLE KATARN, a mercenary for hire who has formed a tenuous alliance with the Rebels.Armed only with a blaster pistol and an intimate knowledge of Imperial methods, Kyle prepares to infiltrate the remains of the Scarif archives, to search for survivors…
Relationships: Cassian Andor/Jyn Erso, Kyle Katarn/Jan Ors
Comments: 9
Kudos: 26





	1. Opening Crawl and Supplemental Data #1

_**A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away...** _

**Star Wars**

**Rogue One: Dark Forces**

**The Scarif Extraction**

_It is a dark time for the Rebel Alliance. Though the Death Star plans were successfully stolen by Jyn Erso and her team of ROGUE ONE commandos, Imperial agents have retaliated in kind, unleashing the might of the battle station upon the tropical world of Scarif._

_Unable to reassert contact with Jyn Erso, the Rebellion seeks the skills of KYLE KATARN, a mercenary for hire who has formed a tenuous alliance with the Rebels._  
  
_Armed only with a blaster pistol and an intimate knowledge of Imperial methods, Kyle prepares to infiltrate the remains of the Scarif archives, to search for survivors…_

**_Supplemental Data #1: Rebel Alliance Intelligence Report_  
** **_  
[Document XI4953- (“On the Strategic Situation of Stardust Cell Following the Battle of Scarif,”) timestamped approximately two days after the capture of the Death Star plans by Rogue One; from The personal files of Commander Alik Waska]_**

We arrived too late to save them. 

By the time our forces could reach Scarif, the battle was long over, the planet was in ruins, and the survivors… if there were any, had long since been killed by subsequent Imperial patrols. By the time our fighters made their first contacts with the enemy, the world had reached us that the entire planet of Alderaan had been destroyed.

Over a million men and women. Gone. Sacrificed in the name of peace and order and justice. There’s no justice in the murder of innocents. No order comes from Palpatine’s rule, only anarchy and chaos. No peace can come from the slaughter of those the Empire deems an obstacle to his power.

In the shadow of the Galactic Empire, there can be only war.

It’s hard to believe that so many innocent lives have paid the price for the tyranny and hubris of the Empire. Jedha, Scarif, Alderaan. Before the Empire, these names were just planets, worlds built upon the backs of men and women and children, worlds with culture and art and industry. Now… now they aren’t just planets anymore. Now they’re rallying cries, calls to arms across the galaxy that will bring an end to this nightmare that is the Empire’s endless hate.

Rogue One was right. The time to fight _is_ now. Every moment we stand divided is another world lost, another culture broken, another family torn apart. I’ve lost so many of my friends in this bitter conflict, made so many mistakes, given up so much in this endless, ceaseless bid for freedom. But in spite of those losses, I’ve carried on. I’ve made my choice to make a stand. I’ve made my choice to continue the fight so that my world, and the worlds of those I call my friends, do not become the next to fall to the cruelty and malice of the Empire. 

Jyn Erso once said that rebellions are built on hope. I’ve never stopped hoping the Alliance will eventually defeat the Empire. In hindsight, I secretly wish I had found that sense of hope a lot sooner. Most of my youth was spent hiding in the shadow of the Empire. I spent so much time hiding away out of fear of retaliation that I never considered the repercussions of the beliefs I subconsciously accepted. 

Back then, if I had believed it was worth fighting for, I could have taken the entire Empire single-handedly. Now, it sometimes feels as though this entire war is a waste of effort, that all the sacrifice and pain and destruction has been for nothing. But at least I have the Empire’s knowledge now. At least I know their tactics, know their weapons and strategies and methods that I put so much faith in all those years ago. If only I could go back and give my younger self that sense of hope, the same hope that eventually drew me to consider rebellion as a possibility. If there had been a Jyn Erso in my life to show me I had a choice, perhaps I could have lent her aid and prevented the cataclysm that has occurred here.

If the Force is with us, maybe there’s a chance that someone is alive down there. I have to hope.

Rebellions are built on hope. 


	2. Prologue

**[PART ONE: DESOLATION]**

**Prologue**

**Outside the Imperial Security Complex** **  
** **Scarif** **  
** **Moments After Death Star Impact**

_ The Death Star flared too bright to watch and a tremor went through the beach. The placid waves rolled higher, spraying flecks of warm seawater over Jyn’s cheeks like tears. An unfathomable rumble echoed ten or a thousand kilometers away. _

_ “Your father would be proud of you,” Cassian said, so soft Jyn barely heard. She thought it was true, even though it wasn’t why she’d come to Scarif—not entirely, not really. It was good to hear aloud, from the lips of someone close.  _

_ The rumbling overwhelmed all other sound. Jyn tightened her grip on Cassian, and he found the strength to hold her. The world grew brighter, emerald at first and then a clean, purifying white. In Jyn’s mind, the cave below the broken hatch was illuminated with the strength of a sun, and then the walls turned to dust and there was no longer a cave but only her spirit and heart and everything she had ever been: the daughter of Galen and Lyra and Saw, the angry fighter and the shattered prisoner and the champion and the friend. Soon all those things, too, burned away, and Jyn Erso—finally at peace—became one with the Force. _

_ *** _

_ Ashes to ashes, stardust to stardust. _

Jyn did not fear the end. She had imagined it many times throughout her life, imagined the flash of light before eternal darkness and the cessation of all sound and feeling and being. Yet, this time would be different. This time it would be a reality. And yet, even as she feared the uncertainty of the unknown, she took comfort in the fact that her life would not end in the way her dreams had led her to believe. There was a certain sense of serenity which came from knowing her life would not end in cold or fear or isolation. If she were to die here on this beach, which undoubtedly, she would, she would die bathed in a radiant glow of light and warmth, entwined in the arms of the man she had come to know as her friend. The fact she would not die alone comforted her greatly, and she let Cassian take her in his arms, let him press himself firmly against her as the blast approached them.

Gradually, she felt more and more of herself slipping away. The Force beckoned to her, called to her, and she felt a part of her pulling away, desperate to answer the distant call. It spoke in the voice of her father, her mother, and Saw all mingled together in a single call; a voice which offered serenity and peace and solace. She felt it speak to her, heard it beckon and call and plead for her to join with it. 

And yet, even as she listened, there was one voice she could not hear amongst the serenity. She listened harder, doing her best to sort out the individual voices amidst the unified call. Longer and longer she listened, and yet it was not there.

Cassian was not there. She called out his name, but her voice was drowned out by the Force. Even as she searched the vast eternity which surrounded her, she felt as part of herself still clung to that distant beach on Scarif. Wrenching her eyes closed, Jyn let everything go.

And the world went dark once more. 

The shockwave slammed directly into the pair of figures on the beach, slamming their intertwined forms down onto the sand. Jyn felt the wind leave her lungs, felt the heat from the blast slash directly through her body. She cried out in sudden anguish; her entire body shuddered as the worst pain she had ever felt radiated throughout her. Cassian cried out as he was smitten with the same unbearable agony, and their two screams mangled together into one singular guttural cry of anguish and desperation as the blast consumed them. 

When it finally reached them, the destruction appeared both beautiful and terrifying. 

Sand swirled around them, kicked up by the sheer power of the blast. Bodies of fallen Alliance and Imperial soldiers vanished into seared clouds of ashes, scattered to the wind as the firestorm unleashed its fury upon the beach. Palm trees and foliage became incinerated; stones turned to molten slag, and the ocean itself vaporized in an instant, powerless against the raw fury of the Empire’s newest weapon. As Jyn struggled to remain conscious, she became aware of all these things at once, and she threw herself over Cassian, desperate beyond all hope to protect him from the hellscape which had suddenly been unleashed upon the world of Scarif. 

Jyn saw all these things, but she could not bear to focus her thoughts upon the spectacle of destruction which surrounded her. Instead, she forced her mind to affix itself upon Cassian’s eyes, to allow herself to become transfixed upon the pair of azure orbs which floated before her, points of certainty amidst the maelstrom of endless fire and unparalleled destruction surrounding her. She could not know what was keeping them alive in this moment, nor for that matter did she particularly care. All that mattered was Cassian. She clung desperately to him, hoping beyond all hope that whatever force appeared to be protecting them might hold for just a moment longer. 

The firestorm continued to consume the beach around them, the sand turning to glass from the very heat which had consumed it. Little trace of the once vibrant forest behind them could be seen; the sheer power of the Death Star had reduced the jungle to a charred and burnt-out ruin. The once clear and pristine sky was choked with dark clouds of desolation, the dust choking the sunlight out of the very air itself. It was as if Scarif itself had been struck through the heart and was breathing its last, as though the planet had given in to desperation and despair as the wrath of the Imperial war machine consumed it. 

***

Given the choice, Cassian Andor would rather die any other way than this. He had always imagined a swift and painless death: a firing squad, a vibro-blade to the throat, or, by some miracle, a silent death, a death more akin to rest than agony. He had imagined his death so often that it now seemed like some distant memory still clinging to his vision, but he had never imagined anything like this. 

And yet, he somehow found himself content with how this ending would play out. He would not die alone. He would instead die in Jyn Erso’s arms, surrounded by her scent and held tightly in her embrace, and the two of them would become one with eternity together. 

He clenched his teeth together, forcing his consciousness to fight through the pain Krennic’s blaster wound had inflicted upon him. The taste of salt and sweat and sand filled his mouth as the wave of flaring light from the Death Star’s superlaser bore down upon them. Yet, he chose to acknowledge any of those things. Instead, Cassian diverted as much of his attention as he could towards thoughts of Jyn; towards the warmth of her body and the sound of her breathing. He watched her in silence, marveling at the serenity of her expression. The two of them looked at one another, and his smile widened as she rested her head against his unhurt shoulder. He closed his eyes as the wind billowed and surged, breathing deeply, forcing himself to deny the knot in the pit of his stomach. 

Jyn pressed her hand into his palm, but Cassian refused to look down to acknowledge her gesture. He felt himself pull Jyn tighter, felt himself shudder in her arms. 

As they braced themselves for the coming impact, held in one another’s arms, Cassian thought about all the things he had done for the Rebellion. Battles he had fought, men he had killed, acts of terror he had perpetrated. All of these things came back to him in this moment, gnawing at the center of his conscience. And yet, all he could truly feel was Jyn. All he wanted to feel was Jyn. He had contented himself with her presence, and her faith had carried him with her. Now, more than ever, he wanted to believe that she was happy and content for the first time in her life.

The blast swept over them, and he allowed his mind to be at ease.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The italicized text is taken directly from Alexander Freed's novelization Rogue One: A Star Wars Story. I do not own this part of the chapter.


	3. Chapter One

**Chapter One**

**Planet Scarif** **  
****Outside the Imperial Research Complex** **  
** **Approximately ten hours after Death Star impact**

The world swayed and jerked around him as Cassian Andor recovered consciousness. A howling wind howled over the beach like an injured Rancor, while a torrent of pounding rain floated through the air to lash against his skin. For just a moment, he wasn’t even sure if he was alive. Or, if he was alive, how he had managed to survive. Or if there was even a point to surviving, when the only thing he could feel was this unending pain.

The chill wetness helped rouse him from his stupor, and he tried to move, only to cry out as the pain in his injured shoulder stabbed suddenly higher. He blinked, rubbing his eyes with his right palm to force some of the ash and dust away, and felt a sort of dull shock as he realized that he was bleeding from a cut on his forehead. 

A weak and gutteral sound leaked from his parched throat—a Festian curse, one he usually reserved for impossible situations such as these—and his eyelids fluttered as he struggled to clear away another bit of stinging dust. As he attempted to sit up his curse became a breathless, involuntary cry of intense agony as his weight shifted onto his mangled arm and shoulder. The sudden surge of pain, combined with the endless dust and ash was literally blinding, and Cassian screwed his eyes shut once more, gritting his teeth with hurt as years of training and conditioning forced him to fight through the hurt and sit up anyway.

Nausea knotted his stomach as the anguish in his arm and shoulder and badly bruised ribs vibrated through his battered form. With an agonized breath, he forced himself to sit still, as if he were eluding an Imperial patrol instead of the surge of pain that now coursed through his own body. 

But the pain wasn’t simply an adversary he could simply elude. It could only be eased momentarily, and he blinked away more tears, scrubbing at his sand-blasted face with his uninjured hand and murmuring another curse as he smeared mud and the blood from his forehead across his cheeks. He didn't need to be a trained medical officer to know he'd injured one of his knees, as well as his side and arm during his fall from the top of the data-vault, and he felt himself shuddering as an unanticipated wave of hopelessness and pain crushed down upon him. The immediacy of the need to help Jyn complete her mission had helped carry him to this point, but he was on his own now, in the middle of enemy territory, vulnerable and exposed. That single fact was enough to fill Cassian with an even greater sense of urgency. 

Another wave of anguish forced more tears from his eyes, and he cursed again under his breath as he made himself gather his left wrist in his right hand and lift it into his lap. Just moving it twisted him with torment, but he couldn't leave it dangling beside him where he could jar it further. He thought about using his belt to fasten it to his side, but he couldn't find the energy—or resolve—to move it again. It was too much for him. Now that the immediate crisis was over, he knew how dire a situation he was in, how vulnerable he was, and how desperately he needed the others to come extract him. Yet even as he dared to hope, the sight of the desolation around him persuaded Cassian that his companions’ chances had been spent. 

His friends were gone. They had been claimed by the Empire.

He didn’t know exactly how long he sat there in the silence, surrounded by dust and ash and death. The stench of charred flesh and warped metal was overpowering, suffocating. His dark eyes were distant, unseeing; there was nothing around him except grey ash and smoke and an endless sea of rain. Cassian’s eyes stung, with tears perpetually gathering at the corners, but never spilling over. He was a trained intelligence agent, used to operating alone. His conditioning and training had taught him to suppress his emotion, to hide his feelings from the world, but the thought of surviving while the rest of his team died was suddenly too much for him to bear. He cried out in pain, choking on his own breath, his tears pouring down his cheeks and over abused flesh, stinging and burning all at once. 

He was alone. He was afraid. And he needed Jyn.

He looked around him, frantically searching for her. The power of the blast had somehow wrenched her from his embrace, and she lay a meter or so from him, face-down in the sand. Cassian called out her name, but she didn’t stir, didn’t even move. She only lay there, motionless and vulnerable, and Cassian reached for her, ignoring the pain in his shoulder and the thousand bruises and cuts that stung his skin as the rain drenched over him. 

“Jyn!” He called her name, crawling to her side and pressing one hand against her neck, desperately feeling for a pulse. “Jyn, come on.” 

Jyn didn’t respond. She lay unresponsive in his arms, her eyes barely flickering open when he lifted her into his arms and held her close. The Kyber crystal in her hand glowed faintly with a pale white light, and he slung it around his neck to use as a makeshift glow rod while he attempted to stir her. 

“We have to go,” he told her. 

A faint throbbing in her jugular reassured Cassian that Jyn was still alive. He felt hope rise within him, but it quickly fell away as he surveyed the nature of her injuries. His own pain made him curse more violently as he began to attend to her wounds with injudicious haste, yet he'd hardly noticed as he brushed his hand against the forehead of his companion—his friend, however she'd become that—with trembling fingers. 

Blood covered her shirt and trousers, and Cassian felt a wave of fresh nausea sweep over his stomach as he saw how badly her right forearm had been mangled by the raw power of the Death Star’s blast. He had no idea if she’d sustained any internal injuries, but his frightened touch had felt what had to be the jagged give of broken ribs, and the rest of her body, like his own, was badly bruised as well.

Cassian cringed at the sudden possibility of internal injuries crossed through his mind, but there was nothing he could do about them. The bloody gash on her forearm needed the most immediate attention, and he forced himself to steady his breathing as he tore away part of his ragged sleeve to form a makeshift bandage, shuddering as his newly exposed skin stung as it made contact with the frigid rainwater. 

Binding the cloth with only his teeth and one working hand was impossibly difficult, yet he managed it somehow, and slipped it around Jyn’s broken, blood-soaked arm. He settled it just above the place where the blast had torn away her flesh and drew it tight, bending close to use his teeth again, then worked a bit of debris under the improvised tourniquet and tightened it carefully. He’d never done anything like this personally, but his training had taught him the basic theory, and he'd seen enough combat to understand the basics of field treatment. 

He managed to make the bandage functional enough to work, and he exhaled in relief as the blood flow from Jyn’s injury slowed, then eventually stopped. His training had taught him that cutting off all blood from the damaged tissues would only damage them worse in the long term, but at least she wouldn't bleed out. Unless, he thought, fighting a suddenly resurgent panic, there was internal bleeding, in which case her chances of survival were most likely spent already.

Carefully, Cassian lifted her into his arms and maneuvered her closer to him. He didn't want to move her, but he couldn't leave her lying on the cold, wet ground to die of exposure. He needed warmth, both of them did, and he lowered himself with a groan to sit beside her and lift her as carefully as he could into his lap with only one hand. He flinched when she twisted, crying out in a sudden exclamation of pain, but he didn't put her back down. He simply leaned his own weary form against her, holding her against him and trying to fight against her shock and blood loss with the warmth of his own body as he considered his next move.

The weight of the situation became too much for him, and he sank back into the sand, shuddering with exhaustion, hurt and desperation. Now that the immediate crisis of Jyn’s most life-threatening injuries was over, he suddenly became aware of how helpless the two of them really were in this situation, and how very little he could do to get them both out of it.

He could always make camp here, he thought to himself. There was plenty of debris from the blast that could be used to improvise a survival shelter, and there was a strong likelihood that the dead soldiers scattered across the battlefield could provide him with a modicum of basic supplies. He couldn’t expect to find much in the wake of the Death Star, but then again, he didn’t exactly need much either. All he would need was food, water, shelter… and medical supplies for himself and for Jyn.

As quickly as it came, Cassian broke off the thought. If there were Imperial survivors on this world, they wouldn’t be merciful. Once they learned of Rebel survivors on Scarif, their response would be swift and brutal, and no quarter would be shown. His chances of survival were already slimmer here than they were closer to the ruins of the Citadel, where the probability of finding food, shelter, arms, and medical supplies was higher. Even if he couldn’t make it to the Citadel, he was better off finding an abandoned vehicle than he was out here in the open. 

That brought him to his second option: withdrawal to a more secure position. He could attempt to flee inland in the direction of the Citadel, carrying Jyn with him, all the while searching for the remains of a derelict transport that had survived the worst of the Death Star’s destructive power. From there, if fortune was with him, he could use scavenged medical supplies to attend to the worst of their wounds. 

After a few moments of lengthy consideration, Cassian rejected that plan as well. He was already exhausted, and the burden of Jyn’s extra weight would surely slow him down. That, in turn, would allow the Imperials to capture him, which would lead, ultimately, to his eventual interrogation and execution. Whether he died to his captors or to the suicide pill he carried in the event of his mission being compromised, he would not survive for long if he attempted to carry Jyn with him. Such a plan was based upon nothing but desperate hope, and hope was one of the many things the Death Star had taken from this world.

That left him with only one alternative, and he cursed under his breath as he turned his attention to a Stormtrooper rifle, which rested at the base of a shallow crater nearby. In both of his escape scenarios, Jyn presented the greatest danger to his chances of escape. If he left Jyn behind, he would have a better chance of making it off this world alive. However, that presented another vulnerability: if he left her on the beach to die, any Imperial survivors on the planet would surely capture Jyn and torture his location out of her.

But then again, he told himself, Jyn had trusted him this far. Criminal she might have been, but he couldn’t deny the fact she had saved his life on numerous occasions, and her actions on Eadu and Scarif had more than absolved her of her past crimes. She had given herself willingly so that the rest of the Rebellion might live, offered herself as a sacrifice to buy the Alliance an opportunity to fight the Death Star. Cassian respected Jyn for her courage and resolve, and he shuddered internally at the thought of betraying her trust, as so many others in her life had done. The thought made him unusually indecisive, and he forced himself to swallow the heavy lump forming at the back of his throat. Even as he longed for an alternative, the possibility of finding one seemed to grow more and more distant, until it seemed as far away as the distant stars.

Cassian Andor was a trained soldier. He was bound by ties of duty and responsibility, and he had sworn to obey orders, no matter the cost. Personal feelings, however deep or deserved, took second place to his oaths of loyalty to the Rebellion. An urgent desperation filled his thoughts, masked in Davits Draven’s disapproving monotone. He had already been harshly reprimanded for his failure to dispatch Galen Erso on Eadu, and the thought of failing a second time left a hollow void in the back of his throat.

 _“Good soldiers follow orders,”_ he whispered to himself, reciting a mantra Draven had once cited to him. _“I disobeyed my orders once, on Eadu. I cannot fail again.”_

As he looked Jyn’s unconscious body up and down, surveying her wounds, Cassian realized that, in all likelihood, his instincts from his past missions were correct. He really couldn’t make it to a more secure position with Jyn in tow, not without severely compromising his own chances of survival. Jyn was badly injured; experience had taught him that the probability of surviving injuries as critical as hers was extraordinarily low. In the best-case scenario, by the time he could jury-rig a means of transporting her to safety, any Imperial survivors on the planet would most likely detect them and compromise the chances for either of them to escape. 

He reached inside himself, desperately searching his soul for experience and training which had been suppressed since Eadu. The girl’s current condition was a liability. Her survival had been compromised, and his current inability to effectively treat her wounds left Cassian with no other alternative. Besides, he told himself grimly, the look of agony twisted upon her face told him that Jyn was clearly suffering. Without any real means of procuring proper treatment, it would be a mercy to end her pain, just as it had been a mercy to Tivik and the many other agents who had died by his hand. 

Then again, he told himself with a bitter swallow, this particular situation wasn’t as simple as the one on Kafrene had been. Tivik had truly been a liability. He had been carrying sensitive information when Cassian had killed him, and he had been killed in the midst of a panic which most assuredly would have drawn unwanted Imperial attention. His death had been a necessary loss, a sacrifice made in the name of duty. Jyn had no sensitive information on her person, however, and in her present state she was certainly not in any position of jeopardizing Cassian’s own survival. No, he told himself with a heavy sigh, ending Jyn Erso’s life to protect his own could not be justified by the same reasoning he had used to silence Tivik on Kafrene.

It could not be considered self-defense, nor could it be justified as a necessity of the mission’s security. Instead it would be murder, plain and simple, a murder he could not, would not, carry out willingly.

 _Trust goes both ways._ The sound of Jyn’s voice echoed through his mind once more.

He stared down at Jyn’s prone body, the softness of her unseeing emerald eyes cutting away at his soul. She looked at peace, in spite of the pain, and Cassian set the rifle aside for the moment as he lifted her gently into his arms. The girl’s face was dirtied with spots of mud and heavy bags rested below her dreary yet determined eyes. She was so young, no more than a few years younger than Cassian himself, but the conviction of a true soldier still stretched across her bloody face. As he looked at her, Cassian could feel sweat building up along his forehead, trickling down his cheeks like the pouring rain. His mouth grew incredibly dry, and no more moisture existed in his swollen, parched throat. Biting his bottom lip, he could feel his sanity slowly unravel as he extended his good hand towards the grip of the blaster.

His fingers stopped before he could grip it properly, and he shoved the rifle away from him with a violent cry. Jyn had placed too much trust in him for him to justify the possibility of betraying her. She was the sole reason he was alive, he reminded himself, the sole reason the Alliance had managed to escape from Scarif and elude the Empire’s grasp. Killing her, even out of mercy, would hardly be a fitting reward for someone whose sacrifice had done so much. Even as a part of Cassian urged him to end her suffering, another, deeper part of him urged him to resist, to fight against the very conditioning that he had come to rely upon. While ending her life would provide Cassian with the highest probability of ensuring his own survival, it also came with ramifications that he did not care to consider.

_“Good soldiers follow orders.”_

He shook his doubts aside, repeating Draven’s mantra to himself with a greater resolution in his voice.

 _“Orders, when you know they’re wrong?”_ Another voice interrupted the silence, echoing over the sound of the veteran’s gruff commands. _“You might as well be a Stormtrooper.”_

 _“What do you know?”_ Cassian heard himself say in the back of his mind. The words he had spoken on Eadu replayed through his thoughts, and he felt his finger gradually slip away from the trigger. “ _We don’t all have the luxury of deciding when and where we want to care about something._ ”

“Or _someone_ ,” he told himself, aloud this time, as he released his hold upon the blaster. The weapon splattered into the mud with a loud splash, and he pressed his good hand against his face, gazing between his fingers at the bloody gash which left a line of crimson trickling down Jyn’s forehead.

_“Suddenly the Rebellion is real for you? Now that you’ve got a stake in it, and—and—now that you don’t have another life to go back to? You’re not the only one who lost everything.”_

He paused, considering the words carefully. Who did he have left to go back to? His friends in the Rebellion – Melshi, Kaytwo, Bodhi, the Guardians, the rest of the men and women who had volunteered to go with him to Scarif – were all dead, cut down by the Imperial garrison or blasted into infinite ruin by the battle-station. His home on Fest had also been claimed by the Empire; any friends he might have left behind were undoubtedly slain or captured as well. There was nowhere left for him to turn, no one left for him to rely upon. He was alone, truly alone, with neither friends or allies left in this galaxy save Jyn, who lay in a dazed stupor in front of him, entirely unaware of what he had just considered. 

Everything he had ever done had been for the Rebellion. And, as far as Cassian knew, Jyn Erso was the only surviving Rebel left alive on Scarif. 

For the first time since his arrival, Cassian felt certain that his training and his instincts had betrayed him. He did not have to kill Jyn Erso in order to make it off this world, in spite of everything his training might have stated to the contrary. He was certain of something now, something he had been unsure of for the longest time: 

Somehow, more than anything in the entire galaxy, he needed Jyn to survive. No, more than that, he simply needed Jyn. 

His breath heaved unevenly through corrupted lungs as he whispered his companion’s name, pressing his fingers against her throat and feeling vainly for a pulse. “Jyn, please tell me you’re still with me.”


	4. Chapter Two

For just a moment, Cassian wondered if he was somehow back on Eadu.

The sun had been shining brightly when he and Jyn had staggered to the beach, and it had continued to shine right up until the moment the world had gone black. Cassian wasn’t sure how the beach had suddenly become covered in rain and mud, but he wasn’t about to sit around trying to deduce everything that had happened. He had more important things to attend to than that, such as getting himself and Jyn to a more protected position.

That, and finding a source of food and water.

His knowledge of the Empire persuaded him that his present position was already compromised, and he knew that if he hadn’t drawn the attention of any surviving Imperials by this point already, they would surely make a point of sending patrols to sweep the beaches for survivors. And so, forcing himself to ignore the pain of his injuries, Cassian forced himself to his feet, staggering as his injured knee buckled under the sudden shift of weight upon it. The mud did not make this task any easier, it bogged him down and made standing difficult, but eventually, he managed the task, looking out at the desolation the Death Star had wrought upon the beach.

He had no time for any further delay, however, and he glanced around him, searching for any sign of salvageable supplies. His search turned up nothing, save the blaster he had noticed previously, but upon further inspection, he found it non-functional. Heat from the Death Star had melted the barrel into warped durasteel slag, and he sighed heavily. In order to traverse enemy territory, he would need a weapon, and he cursed under his breath that his sidearm was now most likely buried beneath several metric tons of rubble, lost amidst the Citadel’s ruins.

A few meters away, the remains of what had once been a Stormtrooper lay half-buried in the muddy slurry of ash and debris. Cassian staggered away from Jyn, promising under his breath to return to her, and made his way over to what remained of the corpse. The Death Star’s blast had long since vaporized the woman’s body, but the equipment still remained, as if somehow preserved from ruination by the same mysterious power that had protected Cassian and Jyn from certain annihilation.

He leaned over the remains of what had once been plastoid armor plating, carefully inspecting the remains. The armor itself was beyond salvage; most of the plates had been partially melted into unrecognizable slag by the raw intensity of the Death Star. Yet there was at least something left for Cassian to use, for the ‘Trooper’s utility belt and weapon looked largely intact. Some of the plastoid had been warped by the intense heat, but the vast majority of it appeared functional. Then, of course, there was the Stormtrooper’s helmet, which had already begun collecting its share of rainwater within it.

Seeing no other alternative, Cassian crawled towards the helmet, clasped it tightly in his hands, and began pouring the contents down his parched and corrupted throat. The rainwater was mixed with mud and ash and dust, and tasted vaguely of sweat, but it was wet and cool and eased the desperate thirst that had suddenly overcome him. For the first time, Cassian felt thankful for the storm as he unbuckled the Stormtrooper’s canteen from her belt and poured the last of the water that had pooled inside her helmet into the aperture.

The fact he now had water was a fortunate thing, and he paused long enough to clasp Jyn’s Kyber crystal in his good hand and thank the Force for its kindness. And yet, even as he allowed himself to relish this small victory, he also reminded himself to keep moving. As wet as it was now, the storm wouldn’t last forever. He would need to keep moving; experience with the Empire had taught him that their scouting elements tended to be quite vigilant. Remaining in one place would only make him more vulnerable to detection by probes or speeder patrols, if such things were still present on Scarif, and neither he nor Jyn were capable of properly defending themselves at present. 

A loud rumbling in his stomach jolted through him, and he paused for a moment, as he realized he hadn’t eaten anything since the shuttle flight to Scarif two days earlier. At this point, he didn’t care if a meal came in the shape of an abandoned tin of emergency rations or some jungle-dwelling that had somehow managed to escape the Death Star and stumbled across his path. If the choice was up to him, he most surely would have picked both.

There was a small rations pack attached to the Stormtrooper’s belt. Cassian forced it open with his teeth and his good hand and spilled the contents onto one of the damaged pieces of the Stormtrooper’s armor. He half expected the pouch to be full of ash, but the contents were remarkably still intact. They were bland and mediocre: a handful of protein cubes and a tin of bland greyish consumables that smelled vaguely of industrial chemicals. Ordinarily, very the idea that such unappetizing substances could even be considered ‘food’ by the Empire would be enough to make Cassian vomit (he had tasted Imperial field rations in the past and had struggled to even stomach one bite of the bland stuff), but this was a matter of necessity. He could not be certain if or when he would stumble across a source of nourishment again, and he forced himself to stomach the vile mixture with a look of genuine disgust stretched across his face.

There was very little flavor to the Imperial rations. Clearly, there was little regard for the quality of the food, so long as it could be produced in sufficient quantities to supply the needs of the Imperial war machine. The protein cubes were gelatinous and mushy, and the canned rations tasted vaguely metallic, as if the rations’ only flavor came from the tin the food had been packed in. Yet in spite of their foul taste, Cassian found himself oddly satisfied by the nutrients contained within the pack, and he felt a surge of strength return to him.

After finishing the unfortunate Stormtrooper’s meal and buckling her utility belt around his waist, he returned to Jyn, lifting her carefully into his arms and slinging the damaged E-11 across his body. Readjusting her unconscious form against his good shoulder, he stumbled further inland, across muddy sloughs and the cratered, ashen remains of what had once been jungle foliage. Her weight pressed against him and made it difficult to walk easily, but he still managed it somehow.

After an hour or so of travel, (Cassian couldn’t be certain of how long he had been travelling, for his chrono had been damaged in the blast and was no longer reliable,) he came to a place where the Death Star’s blast had thrown a mound of debris and rubble into an unnatural sort of hill As there was no easy way to bypass the obstacle, Cassian began to ascend it, shifting Jyn’s weight in his arms. As he did so, a sudden thought filled him with concern.

He was completely unarmed. True, he had the E-11 he had taken from the dead Stormtrooper, but it had likely been damaged in the aftermath of the Death Star, and could hardly be expected to sustain reliable fire for more than a dozen shots. No, he needed a proper weapon, preferably one that hadn’t been critically affected by the Death Star blast.

As he crested the hill, he found the object of his search. A meter-long lance of twisted durasteel protruded from the summit of the rise, and he scrambled to the top, extending his good hand towards the piece of debris as if gripping at the haft of an electropole. Twice, he felt his feet shift from beneath him, and he almost fell on top of Jyn, but he somehow managed to correct his balance in time to divert the disaster. When at last his fingers closed around the shaft of his makeshift spear, he cried out in exclamation, ignoring the pain in his injured arm long enough to brandish his newfound weapon.

The durasteel rod wasn’t much, he admitted to himself, but at least it was better than nothing.

His descent from the top of the rise was difficult, but it eventually led Cassian to the half-intact remains of what used to be a U-Wing troop transport. It had managed to go down in a jungle clearing just a few minutes’ walk away from one of the landing pads, and its burnt-out engines still glowed with an eerie reddish light as he approached it. The Death Star’s blast had clearly rendered it derelict, and there was no hope of getting the craft airborne again, but Cassian wasn’t concerned with the flying state of the craft. Instead, he surveyed the shuttle for signs of usable food supplies and other equipment.

Hopefully, Cassian thought to himself, at least some of the crew’s equipment had survived the crash. An abandoned Alliance transport was too much of an asset for him to simply ignore.

Knowing better than to ignore his survival skills -the Alliance had trained him better than that- Cassian crouched behind a heap of debris for a few minutes. In his condition, he couldn’t risk getting face to face with another survivor, be they Rebel or Imperial; fear and adrenaline would most likely turn any survivor against him. 

Cautiously, Cassian unslung the dead Stormtrooper’s E-11 from his good shoulder and brandished his makeshift spear. He couldn’t be entirely certain of the likelihood of survivors from his present position, but he wasn’t about to stumble towards an abandoned U-Wing completely unarmed and unprepared.

The wrecked transport didn’t look like much, but it was clear it had partaken in the battle over Scarif; the side hatch had been partially modified from its stock configuration, allowing an E-Webb repeating blaster to be mounted along one side; the bloodied bodies of the transport’s crew were slumped in the ship’s cockpit, (presumably, they had been trying to flee Scarif when the blast wave from the Death Star had overtaken them), and the partially incinerated bodies of a half dozen other Rebels lay scattered around the wreckage.

He inhaled deeply, whispering to Jyn’s unconscious body as he advanced on the wreck. He had no idea if she could possibly hear him, but still, the very act of speaking to her filled him with a partial sense of reassurance.

Slowly, he made his way to a gaping hole in the U-Wing’s armored side, his ears picking up the sputter and pop of arcing circuits but not a single sound of life from the interior, and drew a deep breath. Then, after gently laying Jyn beneath the wing of the derelict craft to provide her at least some shelter from the storm outside, he thrust his torso through and looked upon obscenity.

He jerked back and swallowed hard, and his pale face was suddenly streaked with sweat. Nothing this side of Hell itself should look like that, a small voice said through the horror in his mind. He closed his eyes, then made himself look again, trying to pretend it was a scene from the HoloNet, and not from reality.

It didn't help. The U-Wing’s interior had been heavily damaged in its descent, and parts of the hull had been blasted into barely recognizable ruin by the raw power of the Death Star. Its tough durasteel hull had been specially designed to be crash survivable under the worst of combat scenarios, but it had never been intended for the abuse to which the unfortunate pilot had subjected it. Consoles were shattered and smashed, and there were bodies too, bodies of the troops that had been aboard the shuttle when it went down.

The sight of the fallen Rebel crew filled Cassian with something worse than horror, but he made himself step fully through the hole. He ground his emotions down, refusing to think, relying on instinct and training alone, as he walked through the entirety of the grounded craft.

There were no survivors, thank the Maker, and as he fought to keep the hideous nightmare about him from registering, he was glad. Glad that no one had lived through the Death Star’s devastation, for no one deserved to survive such an apocalypse. He completed his iron-faced sweep and turned to make his way stiffly from the wreck to retrieve Jyn.

He paused outside the broken hull and gazed up at the pouring rain. He leaned back limply against the side of the U-Wing and closed his eyes while he fought back tears. He sucked in deep breaths, over and over again, until he could open his eyes again at last. After gathering his courage, and his stomach, Cassian made his way forward towards the U-Wing’s cockpit.

The pilot of the transport had been thrown out of her shock harness by the power of the blast wave, and it was hard to tell that shattered, partially burned body had been a woman's. Hell, it was hard to tell she'd even been a living being, and he swallowed his gorge as he knelt down and inspected the body closer.

She was slightly taller and stockier than Jyn was, and her flight suit had been badly torn by her shock harness during the crash. But it was dry, and that automatically made it warmer than what remained of Jyn’s jacket and undershirt.

Muttering an apology, Cassian drew the dead woman’s survival knife from her sheath, cut her free from the harness, and lay her bloodied corpse on the deck of the transport, uttering a solemn request for her forgiveness as he stripped the pilot of her uniform and survival gear. It was difficult, awkward work, especially with only one good hand at his disposal, and the very idea of stripping another woman of her clothing, particularly in the presence of Jyn, made him rather uneasy. However, he quickly shook such thoughts from his mind and forced himself to concentrate. The pilot was dead, after all, and no longer had much of a use for her uniform and equipment in her current state. Had the circumstances been reversed, he supposed that she would have done the same.

When he had finished relieving the unfortunate Lieutenant and her co-pilot of their food supplies, sidearms, and other portable gear, he set to work removing the fallen from the U-Wing and laying them to rest in a makeshift shallow grave he had dug beside the transport. This process took even longer than the removal of their equipment had been, for the dead Rebels were heavy, and his strength had been greatly depleted by an entire day’s exertion. It was fortunate for him that the dead soldiers’ equipment had included entrenching tools, or else he would never have completed the task. Even so, it would not be easy, for his injured shoulder prevented him from working quickly. 

Fortunately for Cassian, the battlefield itself appeared to provide solutions for his struggles. The presence of a nearby crater formed a suitable shallow grave, and he ambled weakly towards the hole, carrying the dead soldier in the same way he had carried Jyn a few hours before. Gently, he rested the body in the center of the crater, taking care to respect the body. When he had finished, he rose from the hole and returned for the second corpse, carrying it back to the makeshift gravesite with a grim determination. For a moment, he wished it was Tonc and Melshi he was burying instead of these strangers, but he bit off the thought at once as he returned to the grim task set before him. There would be time to mourn his own fallen later, he told himself. For now, he had a mission to complete.

Something caught his attention; he felt something brush against the cuff of his trousers. Turning his face in the direction of the movement, his eyes stared into the surprisingly calm gaze of a young Stormtrooper who had dragged himself through the mud to lay limply before him. The pauldron of his bleached armor had become reddened with blood, and his side ran crimson from an apparent vibro-blade wound. How the Imperial had survived the Death Star he could not tell, but he nevertheless lay there, dying and afraid. By Cassian’s reckoning, he too had come to the transport seeking the promise of its supplies, but had collapsed before he could reach the hatchway.

The wounded boy, for merely a boy he was, stared at Cassian for a moment, his dark amber colored eyes cutting away at his soul. He looked at peace, his eyes not moving from the captain’s, his armored legs bent down in the slough of mud that surrounded him. The Stormtrooper’s helmet rested loosely on his head; its lenses were shattered and sprayed with ash and mud. A battered E-11 rifle rested on the ground beside him. His face was dirtied with spots of mud and heavy bags rested below his dreary yet determined eyes. He was so young, no more than twenty-two or so, but wore the face of a true soldier. There was no blood on his bone-white armor; he had not partaken in the deaths of the fallen rebels.

Cassian was far less placid than the wounded Imperial soldier before him. He expected the boy to at least draw his sidearm in a feeble attempt to counter his approach, but he did nothing. He only waited silently for fate to consume him.

He leaned over, discarding the entrenching tool he had been holding, and grasped the grip of the E-11 with his good hand. His finger found the safety, and the weapon hummed to life in his hand. Unlike the weapon he had found on the beach, this one was still intact.

The injured Stormtrooper raised an eyebrow, rather surprised that Cassian had not yet attempted to kill him. His face was serene even in the face of the slaughter around him, as though silently asking, _‘what are you waiting for?’_

The sky was painted a dark grey, the blood pooled from a half dozen different corpses pooled about them like a lake of death. Rebel and Imperial alike continued their death stare, neither moving a muscle, yet the unarmed Stormtrooper, still sprawled helplessly on the ground, seemed much less tense.

Cassian could feel sweat building up along his forehead, trickling down his cheeks like the pouring rain. His mouth grew incredibly dry, and no more moisture existed in his swollen throat. His hand rested against the trigger of the Imperial’s blaster; the barrel aimed at the Stormtrooper’s chest. Biting his bottom lip, he felt his sanity slowly unravel.

He had killed many through the past three years, he noted now, but this… this was different. Through all the battles, attacks, and defenses, he had never truly rested his eyes on the faces of the enemy. To him, anyone in that damned white armor was a threat, an oppressor whose only goal was conquest and murder and tyranny. In any other scenario, his instincts would have normally kicked in by now, and the young enemy soldier before him would be long dead. But there was a strong churning in his stomach as he stared at the injured man. He was so young, so naïve, so innocent looking. He was just a boy.

The wounded Imperial had grown curious as to why the captain hadn’t done anything yet. He slowly lifted his bloodied upper body from the ground to prop himself into a seated position. He raised one hand weakly in the air, even as he reached vainly for his rifle with the other.

Cassian’s pupils turned to pinpoints and the sudden action of the young enemy soldier startled him. Without hesitation, he leaned over and loaded the blaster with his good hand, priming the action and leveled it at his enemy once more. He no longer saw the helpless prisoner before him, the broken man now at his mercy. What he saw instead were the corpses, the bloodied bodies of his fellow Rebels who had been butchered without quarter by the Empire’s bastard sons, the men who wore the same armor as the man before him. He stiffened. Patience and resolve were virtues reserved for Mon Mothma’s war, for the war between honorable opponents. But that was not Cassian Andor’s war. His war was a different sort of conflict, the covert, silent war waged by spies and assassins, which was, by its very nature, a violation of the very nature of honor and respect. 

_Good soldiers follow orders._

He could hear Draven’s voice pounding in his head, and this time, he did not ignore it. He squeezed his eyes shut, pulling the trigger of the Stormtrooper’s blaster. A loud crack and a billowing spray of sparks erupted through the still air around him, and a bright flash from the barrel illuminated his face. A single bolt of superheated plasma cut through the air like a knife, making direct contact with the Stormtrooper’s chest

He kept his eyes closed as the world fell silent again, save the sound of the howling wind and the pouring of the rain. The stillness was interrupted one last time as the unknown Imperial’s body collapsed to the ground with a thud. Fearfully, he opened his eyes; no Stormtrooper sat before him any longer, only the corpse of yet another victim of this bloody conflict littered the bloodstained slough around the U-Wing.

A small smoke stream drifted upwards from the muzzle of the E-11 in his hand, disappearing into the grey sky above, and the air around him began to feel heavy. He was now alone once more, save his company and the thoughts racing through his mind. Still shaken, he slowly approached the corpse, his boots splashing through the mud as he walked. When he reached the body, he turned back, shaking his head sadly. He could feel his expression turn somber. Such a shame, he thought to himself.

The young Imperial’s helmet had fallen off, tilting back and forth on the ground and revealing his messy brown hair, A small exit wound marked his back and the grotesque smell of blood filled the air. Guilt, regret, and the longing for forgiveness swelled up in Cassian’s brain. For the second time since awakening he thought of Tivik, of the cold murder he had just committed, but he stopped himself. This was no ally he had murdered in cold blood, this was an Imperial, the enemy, a servant of Tarkin and Krennic and Palpatine.

Something then caught his eye. In the rear slot of the young boy’s equipment pack was an assortment of data-slates. Possibly enemy maps of some sort, he thought at first. But as the captain slowly removed the data-slates from the bag, he realized that they weren’t maps, but scan-docs, letters of a personal nature.

He looked through them, all written in the finest of script. With a broken heart and watery eyes, the captain noticed the headings of each letter, all sent to the Imperial’s mother, siblings, friends, and lover back on Coruscant.

All the letters ended with the same, simple sentence, _“We can’t wait for you to come home.”_

The pictures and documents were soon littered with Cassian’s own tears, quietly crying above the young Stormtrooper’s corpse. So many thoughts ran through his brain. How many lives had he just ruined with a single blast? How many innocent people would soon be given the news that their loved one wouldn’t be coming home after all? How many sleepless nights would he himself have to endure? Why did he pull the trigger?

He placed the messages and holo-pics back into the Stormtrooper’s pack, wiping away the final tears from his cheek. Solemnly, he lifted the boy’s body and carried it into the crater, laying him to rest alongside the fallen Rebels from the U-Wing. Imperial he might have been, but he deserved to be laid to rest alongside the others, rather than buried alone in his own grave.

He did not look at the faces of the fallen as he picked up the entrenching tool once more and shoveled a mound of dirt over the crater, to bury the dead. After a brief moment of recollection, he rested his rifle back into his pack, gave the makeshift grave one final look, and solemnly re-entered the U-Wing. As he crept through the hatchway, he stripped off his muddy, bloodstained shirt and trousers and threw them into the darkness outside. After re-dressing in the uniform of one of the dead Pathfinders, he made his way aft to where Jyn was still resting and placed an arm around her.

She was still unconscious where he had left her, but a quick check of her pulse and other vitals confirmed she was still alive. He placed the medical supplies and the dead pilot’s uniform on the bench beside her and unbound the makeshift bandage from her arm, checking carefully for signs of contamination or infection. When he was satisfied her injuries were clean, he reached into one of the dead Rebels’ med-kits, obtaining a roll of fresh gauze, a stim-pack, and several bacta patches. He cleaned the wound carefully, holding Jyn steady as she flinched with pain, then re-bandaged it carefully before seeing to her other injuries. When at last he had finished seeing to Jyn’s wounds, he took a deep breath, braced himself for what was to come, and attended to his own injuries.

His wounded shoulder still burned, and the sharp sting of the bacta against his skin didn’t do anything to help his suffering. The sudden pain caused him to cry out loudly, and he muttered another Festian curse under his breath as he struck his head against the roof of the U-Wing. However, the pain soon subsided enough to become bearable, and he bandaged his shoulder well enough to at least ease the throbbing agony. It still throbbed painfully, but at least he could now assure himself that the wound was cleaner than before, and that it was less likely to become infected. After finishing his treatment, he turned his attention away from his injuries, and towards other matters. 

Specifically, searching the storage compartments for food and supplies.

Eventually, after a few minutes of searching, Cassian found a locker filled with equipment belonging to the U-Wing’s occupants and began to scatter the contents throughout the cargo bay—taking note of what had been damaged and what could be salvaged. Remarkably, there was more of the latter, and he relished for a moment as he inventoried his findings.

There was a bedroll— which he had accidentally soaked through by tossing it into a puddle on the deck - which he hung to dry over part of the exposed hull framework—and a synthetic sleeping pad which was too short for him. It was the right size for Jyn, however, and he carried it into the back of the U-Wing and rolled her carefully onto it. After this, he returned forward and continued to riffle through the storage locker, taking a mental inventory of his findings.

He found a survival knife, far too short to wield in combat (but useful for utility), and a small bag filled with emergency signal flares. As if there was anyone left in-system to find them, he thought to himself with an ironic smile. A wave of relief washed over him as he located the trooper’s med kit, which was filled to the brim with bandages and tubes of bacta fluid and stim-packs. There was also a helmet, of the type normally worn by Alliance Pathfinders, with the Alliance Starbird emblazoned across the front. Cassian had little need for a helmet (he doubted the remainder of the Imperial garrison would be able to shell his position anytime soon), but he kept it regardless. If there were other Rebels on the surface, he imagined that something with the Alliance insignia upon it might prove somewhat useful. 

A pair of long, metallic objects were nestled in the back of the storage compartment, and Cassian reached for them, puzzled by their unusual shape. The locker had been bent out of shape, making the extraction of the objects more challenging, but eventually he retrieved a pair of blaster rifles, disassembled into stock, receiver, and barrel assemblies, along with the weapons’ associated bandoliers and power packs.

Cassian recognized the make of the weapons at once: they were A280CFE sniper rifles—the same variety he had initially carried to Scarif. Filled with relief at the prospect of a proper defensive weapon, (while the Stormtrooper’s E-11 was still technically functional, it was also low on ammunition,) Cassian removed the first rifle’s central pistol assembly from the locker and began bolting the forward receiver and stock to the weapon.

The work was awkward with only one arm, and he had no real idea of how he was going to shoulder the rifle without causing further injury to himself. Still, though, he told himself with a weary smile, he felt far more secure with the newly acquired rifle by his side than he did with the battle-damaged blaster rifle he had taken from the Stormtrooper outside. 

After finishing the assembly of the first rifle, he turned his attention to the second. As he bolted the forward receiver to the pistol, he noticed that the rifle’s barrel had been badly bent and mangled in the crash landing. That left it unsafe to fire, and he muttered some choice words in Festian as he removed the damaged component from the A280’s pistol and tossed it to the side. It was useless as a rifle now, but the pistol was still intact. That left him - or Jyn – with a usable sidearm, and he tucked the second weapon into his empty pistol holster as he continued to inspect the storage compartment. 

There were more rations kits stored away in the back of the locker, of the standard variety issued to most Pathfinder squads. Protein cubes, square pieces of plain white bread, and tins of uncooked vegetables. Cassian had survived on these sorts of field rations before, and he considered them mediocre at best, but in this particular circumstance, he was in no position to argue. They would provide him and Jyn with the nutrients needed to heal their injuries, and, after two full days without sustenance, Cassian wasn’t feeling particularly picky. At the very least, he told himself, the Alliance food stores had to be better than the Imperial rations he had consumed a few hours earlier.

He opened one of the dead Rebels’ backpacks that he had brought with him, emptying the locker’s food stores into one of the pockets to combine with the supplies he had taken from the dead pilot and soldiers. After confirming he had everything, Cassian prepared to shut the locker, when he spotted one last object: a small electronic device attached inconspicuously to a hook mounted in the far corner. He reached in and pulled out a small rectangular box with a coil of wire clasped onto the side, which sprung into a meter-long antenna when he unfolded it. No speaker, no lights, just a small switch at the top and on the bottom, he finally found, in small print: 

_Auxiliary_ _Communications Transmitter. For Emergency Use Only._

The sight of the comms array filled Cassian with a surge of hope, and he assembled the transmitter deftly, only flinching occasionally when his sudden movements tweaked his injured shoulder. Eventually, however, he finished assembling it, and he carried it outside, placing it beneath the wing of the derelict transport to conceal it from direct line-of-sight.

There was no instruction manual for the transmitter, but he knew enough from his training to understand how a field transmitter operated. Lifting the handset, he programmed in a familiar Rebel frequency and spoke his message.

“ _This is Rogue One calling any Alliance vessels that can hear me._ ”

He glanced down at the power monitor on the side of the transmitter. It read zero, and he cursed under his breath. Whoever had installed the array had failed to charge the power pack. One way or another, the transmitter needed power.

He headed back to the cockpit, trailing the leads from the generator behind him as he walked. If this U-Wing was anything like the one he and Jyn had taken to Jedha, there would be an auxiliary power source that would provide the shuttle with enough power to conduct emergency operations. With any luck, Cassian told himself, the generator had survived the crash.

Cassian had never been formally trained as an engineer. His training had taught him to break through Imperial security encryptions and sabotage power generators and weaponry, but he had never been tasked with redirecting power from derelict shuttle-craft to an emergency transponder. Nevertheless, he fiddled with the wires, using the dim light of the dead pilot’s glow-rod to illuminate the exposed paneling. After a moment, he managed to find the reserve power input, and, with a desperate, exhausted breath, connected the leads from the U-Wing’s emergency generator into the transponder’s power cable with a huff of exertion. 

There was a spark and a whir and a surge of sudden energy, and he breathed a sigh of relief as the emergency transmitter finally hummed to life with the last of the U-Wing’s reserve power. Frantically, Cassian tuned the comlink to an Alliance emergency frequency and stammered desperately into the handset.

“ _This is Rogue One,_ ” he pleaded desperately over the com. _“Rogue One to any Alliance vessels that can hear me. We’re in need of assistance.”_

Static was his only reply. 

Cassian repeated his message, over and over, as if he were somehow praying into the comlink for salvation to arrive. When at last he could speak no more, and his parched throat could no longer utter a sound without screaming in agony, he hung the com back in its position, closed his eyes, and staggered blindly out of the pouring rain back into the cargo bay. He would try again tomorrow, he told himself. For now, he needed to return to Jyn.

She was awake by this time, (Cassian assumed that the bacta and the fresh bandages had done a great deal to ease her shock and pain,) and she beckoned with her good hand towards him, encouraging him to settle himself beside her. There was the slightest light in her dark eyes, and the spy felt a surge of hope return to him as he staggered through the cargo bay, snatching a large emergency blanket from one of the U-Wing’s storage racks as he passed by it.

Exhausted, starving, and unable to retain coherent train of thought any longer, Cassian obliged at once, collapsing in a heap in the corner of the cargo bay beside his companion. Jyn stirred for a moment at the sound, reaching for his hand, and he clasped it tightly, offering comfort and security. He pulled the blanket from the cargo compartment closer to them both and drifted off to sleep, safe, for the moment at least, in his companion’s arms, his head resting lightly on her shoulder, the glow of the Kyber crystal gleaming between their entwined fingers.

In spite of his injuries, he managed to sleep well for the first time since Eadu.


	5. Chapter Three

Somewhere, deep inside Jyn Erso’s mind, was the remains of a cavern that had collapsed during the final moments of her mission to Scarif. Sealed away within it were her memories of the life she had led before the Alliance: memories of her life as a criminal, of Saw, of Krennic and her time among Jedha’s Partisans. Former acquaintances she once considered her protectors and her guardians, whom she now recognized to be little more than deceivers and opportunists. Memories buried in the dark for so long that she barely recognized their names as more than cruel, hurtful impulses.

Jyn loathed the cave and everything inside it. Throughout her life its role had changed: from shelter to refuge to prison, and she had done her best to remain concealed within it, to avoid the pressing presence of the outside world and remain hidden, concealed away within the surrounding darkness. But the Alliance had forced her out of the cave. They had led her away from the darkness of her past, given her a chance to walk away from the cavern forever in exchange for the completion of one of their missions. She had been reluctant to expose herself and her secrets to the outside world, but the war had blown her cover, forced her out of the bunker and into the light of the wider galaxy. Now, the Death Star had brought its wrath to bear upon the cavern of her mind, turning the walls to dust and bringing its weight down upon her. 

On the beach, held closely in Cassian’s arms, Jyn had thought that she would perish in that cave, along with her fears, but the Force had somehow willed her back. Now, surrounded by uncertainty and doubt, Jyn felt herself trapped between the Imperials barring her path to freedom and the prison of her past that had trapped her deep within it.

Once again, hope seemed fleeting, a distant thing she could only imagine.

*** 

Narrow dark green pupils fluttered open, a bruised and battered face turned slightly, and the broken, terrified form of Sergeant Jyn Erso reached out with her one good hand, feeling her way through the darkness. She looked about her in a broken and helpless state as tears trickled down her bloodstained, weary body to puddle about her in a pool of unspoken torment on the deck beside her. Her dark hair was matted and tangled, and her heart pounded in her chest as she struggled desperately to orient herself to the unfamiliarity of her surroundings. Every part of her burned with searing pain. Every breath seemed to slash into her like a vibro-blade, rending and tearing at her confused and weary body.

She tried desperately to cry for aid, yet all she could manage was an agony filled, strained whisper as the cold air bit into her exposed wounds. It blinded her, a sharp, gut-wrenching torment that wracked every centimeter of her panic-stricken frame. A crushing weight pressed down on her, all around her was a sea of blackness and despair. 

She drew a deep, shuddering breath and looked desperately around her while the tears flowed faster and her memory replayed her final moments on the beach with merciless clarity. She saw Cassian Andor’s eyes gaze into hers, watched the wave of unending light sweep towards her, and felt her muscles tense as the memory of the end overcame her.

Panic raced through her broken body. Not for the first time, she reflected on the searing heat of the blast ripping across her skin, the piercing agony of the end, and the utter void that surrounded her as her life gradually slipped away. It was overwhelming to her, and she gazed out towards the distant beach, wondering why the Force had chosen to spare her, and not the others. She asked herself the question over and over, staring at the kyber crystal. It glowed faintly, illuminating her scarred and bloodied face, but it offered no reprieve from the thousand questions raging in her mind.

_ “Why am I alive? Why are the others, the ones I called my friends, dead? Why did the Force spare me?”  _

The next thing she was aware of was someone shaking her into consciousness. The weight seemed to be lifted from her, the confinement in her chest relieved, and she sucked in a startled, tremulous breath. She immediately choked, inhaling more dust down her throat, and she coughed in earnest. A male voice spoke to her, soft and comforting, and she gazed around her blindly, trying to take in all that had overcome her.

Where was she, she wondered? Was she somehow back on Lah’mu, in the cave where she had been abandoned? She must be. There’d been a collapse. That had to be it. Someone was digging her out. Jyn needed to get out—she had to breathe—

“Jyn! Jyn, it’s alright! It’s me!”

The sound of a man’s voice, comforting and reassuring and vaguely familiar to her somehow, set her mind at ease. She could see a flash of a tunnel at the entrance of the cave—the glow of distant sunlight jerking along the walls—dust raining down from the roof as the world shook—a hand out of the corner of her eye, tight on her shoulder as she was guided away from the darkness—

The images left her mind, plunging her back into the darkness once more. She cried out in sudden surprise, disoriented and confused. What was that? What was she seeing? Her other hand shot up and latched on to the shoulder of the man who had spoken to her, desperate to be grounded in the chaos.

The certainty in the man’s voice seemed to center her, and she drew in a shuddering breath. Going on blind faith, she leaned towards the echoes of comfort that spoke to her, the strong presence guiding her out of the caverns in her mind. The voice was like Saw’s, beckoning to her, offering security and comfort -- and yet it was also different, more welcoming and inviting than Saw had ever been. She thought of her father, but no, it couldn’t be him either. Papa was dead. She saw him die, held him in her arms on that platform on Eadu…

A sudden sound startled her, and for a moment her racing heart threatened to leap into the back of her throat—but the man’s voice eased her panic, setting her at ease.

"Jyn?" 

Her thoughts chopped off and she jerked back around, in a shock spasm fast enough to wrench a half-scream of pain from her injured body, as something brushed against the back of her head. It wasn't that the touch was in any way painful, for it was light and tender and gentle, as though whatever was brushing against her was caressing her with the tenderest of touches. The fact that it was completely unexpected made it all the more powerful, however, and all the pain she felt was the result of her response to it. Yet even as she bit her pain sound back into a groan, the hurt seemed far away and unimportant as she stared into Cassian Andor’s soft brown eyes.

He knelt in front of her, clasping her hand tightly. His face was twisted in agony, covered in dust and sweat and blood, but he glanced towards her, his eyes widening as they once more met hers. There was a relief plastered upon his face, a gratitude in the mere reassurance that she was alive and safe and with him. 

"Cassian!" 

She smiled at the sight of him, almost bursting into tears at the sight of his face. A mixture of shock and fear and relief came flooding into her mind all at once, and she trembled in his arms as he reached over and gently brushed one hand against her forehead to brush the hair out of her eyes. She glanced up at him, beaming at him as she wrapped her arms around him once again.

Cassian smiled back widely as he took her in his arms." I know, Jyn. I’m here. It’s going to be alright."

Jyn could only give him a weak nod. Her entire body ached, bruised and vulnerable, and her throat and lungs felt scratchy and compressed. Her left hand gave a sudden sharp twinge, like an unhappy reminder— and she saw the dirty and ruined bandages that Cassian had used to bind her wounded forearm.

She reached instinctively for the canteen she had strapped to her equipment prior to their departure from Yavin, only to be met with disappointment as her fingers closed around nothing. Somehow, between the citadel and the beach, she had managed to lose it among the chaos of battle.

Cassian drew her closer to him, his concern prominent as he handed her a canteen of water.

“Here, have some of mine,” he insisted gently. Jyn accepted gladly, taking a gulp of the metallic water to 

clear the ash and dust from her clogged throat. 

She pulled away from the embrace and fell silent, looking down at the deck of the U-Wing. “Do you know how we’re alive?” she inquired. “By my reckoning, the blast should have killed both of us. And yet we didn’t. How is that possible?”

"I’ve been wondering that myself, Jyn. Perhaps it was the will of the Force," Cassian suggested. “You were holding this at the time of the blast.” He reached toward her, lifting the kyber crystal necklace from around his neck and holding it up to her. Jyn took it in her hand, squeezing the shard tightly. It seemed to glow with an off-colored azure light, as if something had ignited within it during the blast.

Jyn considered the possibility in her mind for a moment. Her mother had given her the kyber crystal necklace when she was nine years old. She had heard the stories often enough, tales which told of the crystals’ extraordinary powers or revivification and restoration. Furthermore, Jyn believed in the Force just as her mother had, just as Chirrut had.

_ “The strongest stars have hearts of kyber.” _ That was what the wise Guardian of the Whills had told her when he first gazed upon it. Hearts of kyber. She turned the phrase over and over in her mind, considering it carefully and searching for possibilities.

At last, a thought finally came to her. Perhaps she was the star the monk had spoken of, and her ‘heart of kyber,’ the crystal she held around her neck, had somehow shielded her from the blast? She considered the theory in her mind for a moment. It more or less made logical enough sense. However, there was a flaw to her logic. The crystal could explain how she had survived well enough, but the theory didn’t account for Cassian. If she was the star with the heart of kyber, as Chirrut had said, then how had the Force also protected him?

She had been holding onto Cassian when the blast had hit them. No one else had been present. It had been the two of them, and no one else. Somehow, in a way she couldn’t understand, the Force had preserved them both, kept them safe from the Empire’s fury.

“Does this mean that... we’ve been given a second chance?" she asked, looking over to him.

“It appears we have, Jyn,” Cassian replied with a nod. “The Force acts in mysterious ways, according to the Guardians. If the Force willed that we live to fight another day, we should take that chance. Another may not come."

Hearing his words, Jyn embraced him once more. Eventually, she pulled away, her smile fading.

"Cassian, what about the rest of Rogue One?"

"What was that, Jyn?" he asked her, tilting his head.

"K-2… Chirrut... Baze... Bodhi. Did any of them make it out with us?" Jyn spoke the names of her fallen comrades, a cold solemnity filling her words. Tears almost burst from her eyes just as she said them. Cassian sighed heavily, placing one hand gently on her shoulder in a futile attempt at comfort.

Cassian shook his head. “As far as I know, we’re the only ones who made it.”

Jyn’s expression fell, and she felt tears sting the edges of her eyes.

"They are in a better place, Jyn. And they are with us in the Force, even if they cannot be here beside us. Remember what Chirrut always said: We are one with the Force, and the Force will be with us. As long as we have hope, their sacrifice will not have been in vain.”

“Hope?” Jyn asked.

Cassian nodded silently in affirmation. “Rebellions are built on hope.”

Jyn nodded, hearing his words but not sure if she comprehended them. Her mind spiraled with a thousand different questions, and her body throbbed with more pain than she had felt in her entire life. She stared out at the desolate sky. A front of dark ashen clouds now loomed heavily over the blackened beach, clouds of embers and dust obscuring all traces of the horizon from view.

The sight of the destruction overwhelmed her, and she forced herself to turn away from the desolation to stare into the reassurance of Cassian’s soft brown eyes once more. At least they hadn’t changed, she told herself. They were still the same eyes she had gazed into in the turbolift, the same eyes that had looked to her with reassurance as the apocalyptic destruction of the Death Star swept over them.

“Do you think the Alliance knows we’re alive?” she asked somberly.

“I don’t know, Jyn,” Cassian admitted, taking her in his arms. “I sent them a message with the U-Wing’s emergency transponder last night, but it’s hard to know if anyone heard me. My guess is that the Alliance Fleet has long since fled the system. With the Death Star armed and operational, I don’t think it’s likely they stuck around for long, not with Yavin so vulnerable and exposed now.”

At these words Jyn felt herself begin to despair once more; she let out a little moan of pain intermixed with fear and clung to him, refusing to let him go. Cassian leaned closer to her, taking her hand and squeezing it tightly. He gently swept one hand across her brow, wiping away the blood and the sweat and the ashes from her face. She nodded weakly, the tears rolling down her cheeks, and he held her there, as he had held her before what he thought would be the end, resolute and determined in his desire to protect her.

She would not let him go, she told herself. Even as her entire body throbbed with unspeakable agony and her mind raced with a million questions she couldn’t begin to answer, Jyn allowed him to hold onto her, whimpering softly in shock and pain as she pressed the weight of her broken form against him.

After a long time, Cassian released his hold on her, gesturing towards the toppled Citadel spire that now lay broken in the distance. “I suggest we get moving soon,” he said, his soft eyes hardening with concern. “If there are Imperial survivors left on this planet, I doubt they will be merciful.”

“Are you sure about this?” Jyn asked. The Imperials are likely to come back for the data in the archives, and if they find us—” She broke off the thought, her eyes wet with bitter, hopeless tears. The thought of Stormtroopers, or worse, Krennic, waiting for them within those ruins swept down her spine, and she pressed herself against Cassian more closely.

“I don’t know if it’s a good idea, but it’s better than sitting here waiting for the enemy to come to us. Out here we’re vulnerable.” He gestured inland, where the spire of the Citadel still lingered in a collapsed heap in the center of the desolate complex. His eyes narrowed at the thought of returning to that place, but he felt his confidence building within him once more. “Besides, we’re more likely to find supplies in that direction than we are out here.”

“Do you have a plan?” Jyn asked, staring at him absently.

He nodded slowly and deliberately, gesturing towards the ruins. “We make our way to the Citadel and look for a ship. If there’s any chance of finding a way off this planet, it will most likely be there.”

At the sound of Cassian’s reassurance, Jyn felt the slightest trace of a smile across her face. It lingered there for a moment, only to fade once more into despair as she considered the odds of them even making it to the Citadel. She hadn’t seen any Imperials since regaining consciousness, but she wasn’t about to throw away her second chance unnecessarily, especially not after having come so close to death.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” she admitted, shaking her head.

Cassian nodded. “I don’t know if I can either. Both of us were pretty badly hurt by the Death Star, and there were less supplies aboard the U-Wing than I anticipated. But I’m not giving up and I’m not leaving you behind. If we go anywhere, we go together. Can you walk?”” 

She nodded. “I think so. Can you?”

“I can, but I’ll need you to cover us. I recovered a rifle from one of the dead Pathfinders. I set it behind me. There’s gas canisters and power packs beside it.”

“Alright.” Her voice trembled as she spoke, and she felt behind her, her fingers gradually closing around the grip of the aforementioned rifle. She pulled the blaster into her hand, checking it for damage and dropping the power pack away. After confirming it was still intact enough to fire, she strung her kyber crystal around her neck with one hand, using the other to load a fresh set of energy cells into the dead rebel’s weapon. It hummed to life in her hand, and she slung it haphazardly about her shoulder.

Cassian rose weakly to his feet and she half stumbled to his side, gingerly wrapping an arm around him. Though every bit of her broken body yearned for release, she nevertheless allowed him to lead her back toward the desolate citadel. She tried not to show the extent of the pain which now throbbed through her injured arm (standing still was bad; moving was even worse) but she gave up after a moment or two, leaning heavily upon him just as he had supported her earlier. Somehow, the two managed to support one another’s weight.

“Do you think,” she asked him now, “anybody’s left to help us?”

He gestured weakly toward the collapsed remains of the Citadel spire. Though he could not manage to point in the direction of high orbit, he managed to move with enough emphasis for Jyn to recognize at least some of his meaning.

“Someone’s out there,” he told her.


	6. Chapter Four

It was a long walk back to the Citadel, Jyn thought to herself.

The bacta from the U-Wing had eased the pain of her injured arm and the lacerations and bruises that covered the rest of her body, but it had done little to help her limping as she followed Cassian towards the remains of the Imperial facility. There had been too few medical supplies between herself and Cassian to treat the entirety of both their injuries, and she had considered a slight limp a small price to pay for the healing of her more serious wounds. However, as they maneuvered their way back across the desolate Scarif battlefield, Jyn couldn’t help but wonder if her refusal to completely treat her injured ankle had been a miscalculation. 

She had allowed Cassian to apply a bacta patch to the swollen site, enough to at least numb the worst of her pain, but it hadn’t made walking any easier. Every step put weight on the afflicted leg, and her steps turned to staggered jaunts the further she travelled. Food and water also helped, (Cassian had insisted she take most of the rations to make up for the time she had spent in unconsciousness), but she still found herself struggling by the time she finally caught up with Cassian.

***  
The aftermath of battle was a familiar sight to Jyn. 

There was no sound of blaster fire or soaring spacecraft or artillery explosions, yet there was still an uneasiness to the otherwise stagnant air, an expectation for things to turn bad quickly. All around her loomed the shadow of the Empire’s power, an uncompromising and unending specter of death that cloaked the very surface of the planet in an unending veil of desolation.

It was enough to break even the bravest man’s resolve.

Now, as she followed Cassian, that same fear tried to root itself within Jyn’s own thoughts. She fought it down defiantly, refusing to yield to its haunting presence. Fear was the path that had stranded her in the darkness before. 

As they ambled away from the ruined transport, she watched him stir uneasily beside her. Jyn couldn’t help the concerned glances he shot in her direction. The presence of the dying Stormtrooper so close to their temporary refuge had left both of them shaken, but he still remained steadfast in his need to reach the Citadel before the Imperials detected them. They continued their advance, the silence heavy between them.  
  
Everything was so…quiet. 

It was strange—the desolation left behind by war was a distant memory for Jyn, in a way that a nightmare was after waking. The barren landscape, unbearably vast and endless after a single moment of violence, stretched out before them—lunar and devoid of human life. The viscous, treacle-like mud clung to their feet as they began to make their way across, as if it wanted to swallow them straight into the earth. A cloud of endless ash and dust hung over the land, ghost-like and unsettling, blocking out the sun, and it brought a chill to Jyn’s sweaty skin. The craters, deceptively deep, pocketed everywhere, bloated bodies floated in the stagnant water and the derelict wreckage of crippled vehicles dotted the ground before them. The smell of rotten earth and putrefaction was awful. That, and the fact that the present scene reminded her so much of Jedha, made Jyn’s stomach churn violently.

And it was so damn quiet.

Cassian was a steady presence beside her, his loud breathing and tense consciousness the only things keeping Jyn grounded. Even if his thoughts were subdued and strained from vigilance, his emotions a haze of fear and paranoia, it was still something in this nothingness around them.

Fortunately, Jyn Erso had known isolation for most of her life. She had grown used to silence.

She had never considered herself part of a team, not really. True, she had fought alongside Saw Gerrera and his Partisans, but that had been more an alliance of convenience, a means of keeping herself alive and avoiding the Empire’s wrath. She had been a fugitive then, hunted by Krennic and the Empire, and Saw had simply been able to do what her father could not. It was a relationship that could not have lasted, not under the Empire’s extremism. 

In a way, she told herself, it was better that way. First-hand experience had taught her that personal connections created vulnerabilities, weaknesses the Empire or anyone else could use to exploit her and take from her. Friendship was dangerous in a galaxy full of enemies; she had seen first-hand how the Empire could sever ties between two beings in a single bombardment or end an entire rebel cell with a single coordinated assault. The more connections a person had, the more vulnerable she was. No, better to be alone, unburdened by attachments. The logic was simple enough: the less people she knew, the less people she could hurt. 

Yet even the comfort of isolation couldn’t prepare her for the absolute vacuum of a place like this. She had experienced this sort of emptiness before, in a different time, in a different place, but that was in the midst of battle. As it was now, this stretch of land was as silent as the grave the Empire had turned it into. It was as though her senses had been dulled. The sensation left her reeling.

Still, she and Cassian pressed onward, and the whole time Jyn prepared herself to be shot to pieces by an unseen Imperial patrol, or blown up by a grenade, or to step on a mine or artillery shell—but nothing happened. They pressed on through mounds of mud and the charred remains of foliage and once verdant forests; past abandoned tanks and walkers and craters stories deep, filled with decomposing bodies and standing water; past faces that peered up at them, half buried in the dirt, skin dissolved into slime on charred and burnt-out skulls.

As she struggled to keep up with him, Jyn could not help but be reminded of the bunker on Jedha where she had been abandoned. Whether it was the silence, the darkness, or something else that caused her to think this, she could not tell, but she reminded herself that Cassian needed her, and that the Force had willed her to survive. 

***  
Cassian Andor watched Jyn limp along behind him, and he wondered if they should rest. He could hear the harshness of her breathing as she struggled across the uneven ground with every step. He considered carrying her for a moment, but the weight of the additional equipment they now bore with them made that possibility unfeasible. 

Now, as they crested yet another rise, he paused to catch his breath as the two of them approached the ruined remnants of what had once been the Imperial security vault. The towering Citadel spire they had ascended to transmit the Death Star plans now lay toppled and broken in the distance, its once imposing structure reduced by the Death Star’s primary weapon into little more than a shattered heap of toppled ceramacrete and twisted durasteel. A handful of landing pads on the far side of the vault still remained largely unaffected by the blast, but most had been severed from the main island, their toppled structures crushed and left in ruins by the power of the superlaser. The sun that had shone so brightly upon the surface only hours before had disappeared behind a cloud of dust, its light blocked out by the smoke and ash and destruction.  
  
Cassian glanced back to Jyn, to ensure she had not fallen too far behind. She staggered to his side, looking out from the crest of the hill in the direction of the desolation before them.

“We should make camp here,” he told her. 

She frowned at him. “Are you sure? It’s still broad daylight.”

“You’re hurt, Jyn,” Cassian asserted. “You need to rest. We both do. If we don’t, I doubt we’ll survive for long.”

Jyn nodded in agreement.

***

The platoon of patrolling Stormtroopers scoured the ashen remains of burnt-out foliage, their E-11 blasters fully set to kill. Their armor glowed in a pale-white aura amidst the gray-black dust that now swept across the surface, and their respirators hissed as they filtered out the heavy particulates from the air.  
  
“Any sign of Rebels?” one of them asked, his voice heavy.  
  
Another trooper shook his head, pointing into the darkness. “Sir, no one could have survived the blast. We’ve scoured this fucking sector for three hours and haven’t found a single sign of life, and if the scans from the Punisher are anything to go by, we won’t find anything. Right Captain Dessyk?”  
  
“Staretz is right, Vero. You’re worrying about nothing,” the voice of Malora Dessyk responded. “Besides, we’re not here for survivors. We’re here for information.”  
  
Vero cocked his head. “What sort of information, Ma’am?”  
  
“You do know where we are, right Trooper Horne?” Malora inquired.  
  
“Scarif, obviously,” Varo replied sarcastically.  
  
“And what, according to our briefing is on Scarif, trooper?” Malora’s stern voice cut through the heavy air; her scathing tone as sharp as a vibro-blade.  
  
The trooper hung his head. “I don’t know, Ma'am.”  
  
The sergeant shook her head, her disappointed scowl hidden behind a heavy veil of plasteel “You mean to say that you didn’t read the briefing before we landed?”  
  
“No, Ma’am. Sorry Ma’am.” Vero shook his head, hanging it in shame.  
  
Malora raised her weapon, leveling it directly at the trooper’s chest. She felt a sting of regret fill her, but her training snapped in, interrupting her doubts. There was no way Vero would learn from his mistake without disc “You’re useless, rookie.”  
  
“I said I was sorry, didn’t I Staretz?” Vero looked toward his fellow trooper, searching desperately for some trace of sympathy.  
  
“Can’t help you out of this one, soldier. You’ve just landed yourself on the Old Lady’s shit list. Now you have to get yourself off of it.”  
  
“Great…” Vero muttered to himself.  
  
Malora paused, considering the situation for a moment. Then, in a single decisive movement, she applied the muzzle of her rifle directly into his chest, sending the unfortunate trooper skidding into the dust. She didn’t apply too much force; the trooper would be no use to her dead. However, she had to admit that he was unlikely to forget his briefing again, or, at the very least, he would think twice before   
  
“Excuse me?” she demanded.  
  
Vero hesitated. “I said, this mission is just great… Ma’am.”  
  
Malora nodded. “That’s what I thought you said. Consider yourself lucky the air’s too thick for me to take your helmet off, TK-6633. Otherwise you’d find me throwing it at your fucking face. Now get up.”  
  
Vero obeyed, struggling to his feet.  
  
“Now pick up your kriffing rifle and get back in line.”  
  
“Yes, Captain.” Vero bent over, picking up the battered, soot-covered E-11. After clearing the ash from the barrel, he reassumed his place in the line, hanging his head in shame as the others looked on. Malora could see the relief in the trooper’s eyes, and for a moment, she couldn’t help but sympathize with him. She too had been the fool once, the trooper that had disgraced herself on the front lines and been subjected to ridicule and disgrace.

But even as she sympathized with Vero, the lesson still had to be learned. Orders were orders, and an unprepared trooper was a liability. Even as she admired Cadet Horne’s enthusiasm, Malora was still the squad’s commander. It was her duty to maintain discipline and order in her unit, and while she may have had her own reservations about the Stormtrooper Corps’ punitive measures, neither could she deny their effectiveness. Sighing heavily, she turned her back to Vero, even as a part of her wished to extend her hand to help him to his feet.  
  
“Nice work, Ash-Ass,” Staretz laughed, clapping his companion on the shoulder. “If I were you, I’d get to the back of the column and don’t say a word.”  
  
“Ash-Ass. I like that. I guess we’ll have to call him that from now on, right Captain?” Staretz chuckled loudly as the Stormtroopers looked on at Vero’s misfortune, his eyes fixed on the embarrassed Stormtrooper with a hint of genuine amusement crossing his face.  
  
“Shut up before I come after you next, Staretz,” Malora commanded. “Now form up, all of you. Just because we haven’t seen any survivors doesn’t mean there aren’t any.”  
  
“Yeah, and Ash-Ass has probably told all of them where we are with all the noise he’s making.”  
  
“Shut the kriff up, Staretz.” Vero muttered.

"Silence, all of you." Malora ordered. "You can argue all you want once this patrol is over. For now, we have more important matters to attend to. Is the probe ready for deployment."

An affirmative nod from Staretz confirmed the answer to her question, and she motioned to her second platoon leader. Varus nodded in acknowledgement, as he and Sergeant Terrion entered the search coordinates into the probe droid's sensor array. Thee was a loud humming sound as its systems came to life, and she couldn't help but smile as the probe hummed to life and emerged from the cargo container, its sensor arrays sweeping the rugged terrain around it for signs of its goal.

She gave herself permission to smile. In spite of Trooper Horne's mishap, everything was, for the moment, going according to plan. 

***  
Jyn had fallen half asleep, leaning back against a nearby rock, but her head snapped up instantly as a low, droning sound resonated through the canyon below. She'd never heard anything like it, yet she knew instantly what it meant. 

They were no longer alone. The Imperials had found them.

She looked around wildly, trying to find the source of the sound, then gasped, eyes huge in a parchment face. A squad of Stormtroopers patrolled the valley below, accompanied by a probe droid, its armored carapace flowing out of the mist like a sleek, multi-legged shadow of death. Its sensors swept around their location, trying to identify a target, and its ventral blaster cannon flattened against its armor as it sent a transmission into the smog.

The Stormtroopers, on the other hand, stood out amidst the barren emptiness, their polished armor gleaming brightly amidst the billowing clouds of ash. There were at least a dozen Imperials in all: eight white-armored Stormtroopers, three soldiers in dark black armor, and a fourth figure in the tan armor of a Shoretrooper, all escorting the probe. Most held standard E-11 rifles, though Jyn recognized a heavy blaster rifle and a pair of heavy repeaters among the squad. They patrolled the hillside with steady, even strides, moving across the muddy slope with a grim, determined sort of confidence.

From his vantage point beside her, Cassian watched the patrol draw steadily closer, wrapping his hand firmly around the grip of his sniper rifle. Neither of them said anything. Use of verbal commands risked compromising their position, and Jyn wasn’t all that enthusiastic about the prospect of capture. If these Imperials had also survived the Death Star, they would likely be particularly defensive, their senses hyper-stimulated by their brush with death. If they had arrived from off-world, they would be fresh and eager for contact with the enemy. Either way, she didn’t relish the thought of engaging them, especially in her present condition.

Finally, after a few moments she broke the silence. “I don’t like the look of that,” she whispered. “We’d best put that probe out of action before those Stormtroopers detect us.”

“I’m more concerned about the probe, but I agree,” Cassian replied. “Without a plan of attack, we’re vulnerable out here in the open.”

She could only nod in agreement.

***  
Jyn Erso was more than familiar with the prospect of impossible odds. As a Partisan, she had often engaged enemy forces far larger than her own, often with inferior equipment and less competently trained allies by her side. Yet the engagement she faced now was different. She had no allies to assist her, save for a badly injured Cassian, and the only armament at her disposal was a half-spent blaster rifle which was as likely to injure her as it was her target. The odds were against her and she knew it. Her concealed position was her only advantage, and that would disappear the moment she fired her weapon. The odds of success were astronomical.

Then again, she told herself, so were the odds of surviving the Death Star. And she and Cassian had managed that, somehow. There was a chance, a slim, almost impossible chance, that the two of them might somehow make it out of this situation alive as well. The Imperials had no reason to suspect an Alliance infiltration. As far as they were concerned, the Rebels who had infiltrated their Archives had been vaporized by the Death Star, their atoms now scattered about amidst the very air they breathed. That fact alone was an asset, and she fully intended to take advantage of the element of surprise. 

First, though, she needed a proper plan. 

There was no possibility of a direct frontal engagement; even with their strategically advantageous position the Imperials still held the advantage in both firepower and survivability, as well as sheer volume of fire. She would die before she even reached her target, and, even if she did, there was even less of a possibility that she would be able to overpower a heavily armed Imperial soldier in her compromised state. The possibility of a flanking maneuver was also limited; given the circumstances, the Stormtroopers were most likely under orders to fire at the first sign of movement. Any attempt to position herself and Cassian in a more advantageous position would likely be cut off immediately and quelled without any hesitation. 

She felt her heart throb faster. There wasn’t much time. The very presence of Imperials in the region was enough to set her on edge. Somehow or another, the Empire had also survived the Death Star. If the Imperials somehow discovered them, they would have no chance of escape.

Her thoughts drifted back to Rogue One and what Cassian had told Melshi and Sefla and the others prior to their infiltration. He had used very specific words in his orders, words Jyn recounted now.

 _“Draw them out,”_ he had said. _“Keep those troopers away from us.”_

Of course. That was it! If she somehow managed to lure one or two Imperials to her, she might have a chance to overpower at least one of them and take his weapon and ammunition. The fight would still be in the Stormtroopers’ favor, but the disparity of range and firepower would at least be partially neutralized. It wasn’t much of a plan, but it was at least something. Far better to fight the enemy in close quarters than charge across open terrain to almost certain death.

Jyn began scrawling a rough diagram into the mud to outline her proposal. For a minute, she wondered if Cassian would actually go along with it; it was at best a suicidal venture and at most a desperate last-ditch attempt to buy them time. She had no confidence that her effort would succeed, nor for that matter any confidence that the Imperials would even take the chance she was about to offer them.

“A diversion. Good thinking, Jyn.”

“It’s simple, Cassian,” she replied. You can take out the probe with your rifle, but not from this position. Drawing the stormtrooper’s fire is the best means of getting you to a more secure position,” she explained. “If they’re focusing their fire on me, they won’t be shooting at you.”

“But that will leave you exposed.” Cassian objected.

“I know,” Jyn replied. “But it’s the only plan I’ve got.” 

“Or,” Cassian replied, tracing his own fingers over Jyn’s diagram, “we use that distraction to lure those Imperials towards us. I can use my rifle to snipe them upon the approach, and you can cover me if they get too close.”

“That’s a better idea,” Jyn replied.

He handed Jyn a large stone from a heap of dislodged rock, clenching his injured shoulder with the other hand. “Use this to lure them in,” he explained. “Ordinarily, I’d recommend thermal detonators, but we don’t have many to spare.”

“Agreed,” Jyn replied. She smiled slightly. If this worked, she told herself, she would have plenty of reasons to thank him for his loyalty. 

Assuming, of course, that this outrageous plan of hers actually worked. 

“If we commit to this plan,” Cassian said, taking a stone of his own from the pile beside him, “there’s no turning back. Are you sure you’re with me?” 

_No. No I’m not._

Jyn hesitated for a moment. She wanted to tell Cassian the truth: that she was frightened and broken and afraid of the path before her, but she forced the thought away. Fear was the path that had stranded her in the darkness before. She could not allow herself to be afraid now. 

Eventually, she nodded to him, forcing herself to remain calm in spite of her frayed nerves. 

“All the way,” she replied. 

With a deep breath, the two of them lobbed the stones toward the approaching Imperials, which splashed into the mud loudly.

 _“Did you hear something?”_ Jyn heard one of the Stormtroopers ask over his comlink.

 _“Affirmative,”_ came the reply, which Jyn traced back to a Scout Trooper standing at the front of the patrol. _“But I can’t see anything through this interference. Permission to go check it out, Commander?”_

For a moment, Jyn held her breath. What if the entire squad decided to investigate? She hadn’t figured that into the plan, nor did she want to think about the possibility, but she nevertheless had to consider it. 

_“Permission granted, Varus,”_ came the reply. _“Terrion, go with him and keep him out of trouble.”_

Jyn exhaled in relief. Only two members of the patrol had fallen for the diversion. A challenge to defeat with only a blaster pistol and a half-depleted E-11, but not an entire squad either. She glanced over to Cassian, who motioned towards a twisted shard of durasteel that he had found lying about. Intent in his eyes, and she picked up the improvised blade and brandished it like a tarnished dagger. Crude it might be, but she would need some sort of melee weapon if this plan was to succeed.

Cassian had lifted a pair of quadnocs and was looking down the ridgeline at the approaching Imperial patrol. For a moment, she wondered if he had considered commencing fire upon the Imperials, but he had not opted to raise his weapon. Fitting enough, Jyn thought to herself. Firing a weapon, even a silenced one, in the direction of the Imperials was almost certain to draw the rest of the squad’s attention, and she hesitated at the thought of their position being suddenly compromised by a flanking maneuver or envelopment. No, she told herself, it was better to keep the rifle concealed, hidden away where he could use it to suppress the Imperials if things got too out of hand. 

The pair of Stormtroopers moved closer, the scout leading his companion through the dust towards them. From this distance, about twenty meters from their position, she could make out the vague outline of a stun baton clipped to the lead man’s utility belt. A holstered sidearm hung at his side, and a pair of detonators hung from his belt opposite the blaster. It was a light loadout, but then again, the man wasn’t a line Stormtrooper. He was armed only for light patrol duties, and this suited her just fine. The second Imperial, the woman that the commander had addressed as Terrion, was more of a concern, however. She carried an E-11 and a full set of charge-packs for it, and the brightly colored pauldron of her armor denoted her as a Sergeant. That meant combat expertise above that of a standard Stormtrooper, and Jyn braced herself mentally for the fight to come.

About two meters away from them, the scout trooper paused, bending down through the dust to crouch over the scattered debris. Terrion approached, her blaster leveled.

 _“Find anything, Varus?”_

_“No, Ma’am. Looks like one of the Rebels died here, though. There’s a blaster rifle here.”_

_“You’re joking. How in the world could a blaster have survived the Death Star? A blast of that intensity would have melted it into slag.”_

_“Search me, Ma’am. But there is a blaster here, I’m sure of it.”_

_“Either your sensors might be off, or you’ve been out in this air too long, Trooper. Either way, I want confirmation.”_

The woman named Terrion’s voice carried over the howling wind, and the Scout bent over to inspect the stone Jyn had cast in his direction. At that moment, Jyn lunged from her ambush. There was a sudden cry over the com, followed by a muffled sound of metal scraping against armor. The Stormtrooper named Varus had approximately fifteen short seconds to contemplate the nature of his existence before he collapsed to the landing pad with a loud clatter, the shard of sharpened durasteel rammed cleanly through his chest through a gap in his armor’s plating. 

The dust ran crimson with the Stormtrooper’s blood; however, Jyn didn’t pause to contemplate the deed she had just enacted. She rose from her kill and lunged towards Terrion with a single sudden movement. Startled, the Stormtrooper leveled her weapon and fired blindly into the clouds of dust. By the time she realized her foe was close to her, however, the trap was already sprung. Jyn sprinted forward, leaped into the air to carry her momentum forward, and plunged her makeshift blade deep into the Stormtrooper’s exposed neck. A loud scream filled the air, followed by a muffled gargle, and Sergeant Terrion joined her companion in the arms of death. 

Jyn looked to Cassian with a nod as she discarded her improvised blade and stripped Varus’s weapons and equipment belt from his corpse. 

“Now let’s get out of here. Those troopers probably heard the commotion.”

The com of one of the fallen Imperials crackled, as if to confirm his statement. Cautiously, Jyn reached toward it, and Cassian frowned.

“What are you doing?” he asked her.

“Drawing them out,” Jyn replied. Taking a deep breath, she acknowledged the comlink.

“This is Sergeant Terrion. Everything is under control.” She cursed under her breath as she lied. Everything was the opposite of ‘under control;’ the Imperials didn’t need to know that, however. After a few moments, the com crackled again.

“ _Sergeant, we heard someone scream, as well as blaster fire. What the kriff happened out there?”_

“Something came out of the dust and took us by surprise. We have a trooper down, repeat, Varus is down. Request assistance immediately.”

“ _You sound different to me, Sergeant. Was your com damaged in the attack?”_

“Affirmative _,”_ Jyn replied. “I was hit by one of the intruders during their ambush. My com sustained heavy damage.”

_“Roger that, Sergeant,”_ The Imperial acknowledged. _“We’ll send the rest of the squad to reinforce you right away. How many of the intruders managed to escape?”_

Jyn hesitated. “I don’t know, Sir. The kriffing bastards came out of nowhere. They hit Varus, then me. I couldn’t get a good sight on them.”

_“Affirmative. I’ll want your full report when we arrive. Tarakan out.”_

As she made her way back to cover, Cassian frowned, motioning in the direction of the remaining patrol, where the olive colored droid was now buzzing incoherently. Apparently, the probe had caught wind of Varus and Terrion’s demise, and transmitted a signal to its superiors. Now, ten more Stormtroopers had been alerted to their presence, turning away from their patrol route as they began making their way towards them. 

“What were you thinking? You just drew the entire squad’s attention! And their reinforcements, if they have any!”

Jyn nodded. “I know, trust me. I have a plan.”

***  
Cassian watched as the rest of the approaching Stormtroopers made their way towards him, wrapping his hand firmly around the grip of his rifle. His dark brown eyes blinked away a bit of dust from the corner of his vision, scanning, surveying every move the Imperials made. His heart pounded in his chest, and he glanced from one side to the other, simultaneously shifting his attention from the Imperials to Jyn and back once more.

As the patrol moved closer, Cassian paused, taking mental notes as he zoomed in the electroscope of his rifle on the approaching Imperials. The troopers moved slowly, paying little regard to procedure or protocol. Even from their concealed position he could overhear them bickering with one another, and, from the nature of their conversation, they had absolutely no idea he and Jyn were even here.

Not that they had any reason to suspect an Alliance infiltration, he told himself. As far as these troopers were concerned, the planet of Scarif had just recently been reduced to a lifeless, barren wasteland, its surface torn asunder by the Death Star’s primary weapon. As far as they knew, the Rebel insurrectionists of Rogue One had also been vaporized, their atoms now scattered about amidst the very air they breathed.

The troopers were now a hundred or so meters away. Cassian loaded his weapon, pausing to secure the sniper rifle’s suppressor onto the barrel emitter. Seizing a power pack from his belt, he loaded it securely into the chamber, pausing until he heard the confirming click as it slid home. From over the com channel, he could still hear the bickering and banter of the Imperials. Cassian chuckled to himself with a satisfied smirk upon his face. Amateurs, he thought to himself. The Empire should have known better than to send such a lightly armed patrol into the heart of a recent blast zone. They were moderately armed, by Imperial standards, without walker support or heavy weapons, and the interference in the atmosphere had undoubtedly cut them off from the Star Destroyer’s communications. Isolated and alone, they would have no way of calling for reinforcements, or, for that matter, of informing their superiors of the situation on the ground.

Or at least, that was the hope anyway. 

Slowly, carefully, Cassian took aim with his rifle, taking careful aim at the lead trooper. His eyes narrowed, and he forced himself to fight through the dust that stung his eyes and obscured his vision. Fifty meters now. The troopers continued to ignore his presence, still bickering, still laughing amongst themselves. Their individual outlines were still partially cloaked by the blowing dust, but Cassian didn’t care. He was a trained marksman, and the A280’s electroscope was specially designed to be effective in adverse conditions.

More to the point, Cassian Andor was a crack shot. He hardly ever missed, and when he did, it was generally intentional.

He had no intention of missing today. Cassian took aim into the center of the crowd, steadied his breathing, and squeezed the trigger.

The blaster rifle flared in his hand. There was a sudden flash from the emitter of his blaster, followed by three more shots in short succession. A blinding explosion followed, and the four Imperials scattered as their probe droid disappeared in a plume of flame. 

He didn’t pause to confirm his kill. Taking a deep breath, he leveled the rifle again, got a lead on the nearest Stormtrooper, and pulled the trigger. 

The first Stormtrooper to step out of formation dropped at once, pierced by a single shot to the forehead. A second followed shortly after, and he turned his attention towards the approaching squad. The entire group had heard the commotion and had raced towards their fallen companions. Quickly, Cassian ducked back beneath cover. Had they seen Jyn? Had they heard the sound of her blaster shots? He couldn't tell, but he wasn't about to take any chances.

“Jyn! We’ve got incoming!” Cassian shouted, motioning to where a pair of Stormtroopers had maneuvered into position to outflank him. Acknowledging him with a nod, Jyn detached a thermal detonator from her utility belt and rolled it towards him. Inhaling deeply, ignoring the throbbing pain in his shattered shoulder, Cassian primed the explosive and lobbed it away from him, sending it spiraling towards the advancing Imperials. 

As the detonator landed, the stormtroopers scattered; Cassian heard their panicked voices resounding over their com channel. Sporadic bursts of return fire cratered the ground around him, but he ducked back behind cover, only peering out occasionally to send sporadic return fire back towards his assailants.

The exploding detonator claimed the Imperials before they could pin him down.

“Nice one, Cassian!” He heard Jyn call out over the sound of the detonation. He started to thank her, but a sudden burst of return fire interrupted his congratulations. Jyn ducked down suppressed by the Imperial’s blaster fire.

“Jyn!” Cassian yelled out a warning as he popped up from behind his concealed position, firing a series of shots in rapid succession. One of the Imperials staggered away from Jyn, the right shoulder guard of her armor smoldering as the pair of bolts lanced through the plastoid plate. Cassian could hear the Imperial scream as she flew backward, which was soon followed by the sound of splattering mud. His heart pounded over the sounds of combat, and he felt his injured shoulder flinch as the recoil of the weapon kicked back in his hand, but he ignored the pain and the exhaustion and the sounds of the enemy. He was a trained soldier. Killing had been his life for as long as he could remember. There was no time for regret or pity or remorse. The enemy was upon them. In this moment there was only time to act, and act he did. 

He leveled his blaster, carefully leading another stormtrooper in his sights. Inhaling deeply, he squeezed his finger tightly against the trigger, unleashing a fusillade of bolts in the direction of the enemy. The first three missed their mark, but the fourth hit home. Cassian heard the Imperial cry out in pain, staggering for footing. Whether he had hit the enemy or Jyn had, he could not ascertain, but he felt a surge of satisfaction race through him as his target collapsed.

Somehow, beyond all possible hope, they were winning.

***

_“Sith-spit!”_  
  


If it hadn't been for the hot pain in Malora Dessyk's upper arm, slamming into the beam of durasteel might have actually hurt more than she felt. That wasn’t very reassuring though, considering it still burned like a lance of fire. Trying to bear the lancing agony from the wound, Malora staggered away gasping and choking. Behind her, her squad struggled to keep up, battling through the wind and the dust as blaster fire cratered all around them. She looked over her shoulder for signs of Sharyn, and she allowed herself a moment of relief as she overheard her friend's voice echoing over her headset. She was safe, for the moment at least, and that very thought filled Malora with a modicum of confidence. For the first time since the Rebels had ambushed them, she felt her resolve grow in strength. 

She winced, ducking her head as the probe droid’s sudden detonation shook the hillside around her, throwing one of her Stormtroopers down into the abyss with it. Shards of twisted durasteel alloy from the droid’s battered casing scattered about her surviving troopers, clattering and clanking onto the ground with a sharp sound that caused her ears to ring. The screams around her were replaced by shouts, fusillades of sporadic return fire, and the panicked clamoring of footsteps as the surviving members of her patrol attempted to move to cover behind the wreckage of the probe. She could hear one of her NCOs barking orders to her comrades as they attempted to reform her platoon of remaining Stormtroopers into a coherent fighting force once more.

Malora could feel sweat dripping from her forehead, and desperately resisted the urge to remove her helmet to wipe it away. Swallowing heavily, she summoned the necessary resolve and crawled towards the heavy repeater that TK-79530 had dropped as he died from shrapnel wounds. All around her, her comrades bled and died, and she felt her hatred for the rebel scum surge within her as the heavy weapon thundered in her grip. Her helmet’s comlink blared, as desperate pleading Stormtroopers attempted to contact the _Avenger_ for reinforcements, knowing full well that they would never come.

 _“Where the hell did that come from, Ma’am?”_ Trooper Horne's voice broke her concentration. She staggered to her feet, still shaken from the blast that had just slammed into her and knocked the wind out of her lungs. She didn’t know why this was happening, or what exactly had alerted her assailants to her squad’s presence. Had she done something to deserve this? If so, what? The field of debris on either side of her seemed to hang with an accusatory stare over her, pressing invisible fingers down in her direction, passing judgement as her squad staggered through the choking dust, searching in vain for traces of their unseen foe.  
  
_“I have no idea!”  
  
“There’s cover up ahead, Ma’am! I suggest we use it!”_ Staretz’ voice crackled over the com. _  
_  
Malora nodded in agreement. _“I agree, Staretz. Troopers, get to cover! Now!”_  
  
Without a second thought, the squad dove towards their objective, pressing herself against the rock into the shadows. There, Malora listened, her ears picking up sounds: the scattering of dust particles rattling against her armor, the staccato rhythm of enemy fire crashing into the debris in front of her and her men, the screaming of the gusting wind. For a moment, the blasts seemed to cease, and the Stormtroopers glanced around them, taking an assessment of the situation.  
  
In the momentary illusion of safety, she let go of her upper arm. She let out a little squeak of pain as she sealed the hole with a press of a button on her wrist console, then quickly slammed her hand over her own mouth.  
  
What was that? She thought she heard...  
  
Footsteps. Slow. Deliberate, and echoing towards them.  
  
With deep, desperate breaths, she gulped air into her lungs, her hearing interspersed with the dull pulsing of blood in her ears, as though her heart had lodged itself up into her head.  
  
_“Check your cells, men. Stay low.”  
  
_The sound of blaster fire began again, industrious and sure. Malora checked her cells, looking around as her comrades collapsed around her. Bodies of white-armored soldiers lay scattered in the dust and mud, most of them unmoving. Her helmet's audio receptors resonated with the screams of her dying comrades, and she winced as one of her Stormtroopers collapsed into the mud, throat slit by the female rebel as she danced about in their midst, blades flashing her blaster ablaze with crimson light.   
  
_“Incoming fire, Ma'am!”_ Vero shouted. Malora snapped her attention away from her distant foe and dove for cover, narrowly avoiding a blaster bolt from the male rebel's sniper rifle. She exhaled heavily, cursing under her breath as her helmet tumbled down the slope away from her.  
  
“ _Heads down! Now!”_ She shouted the order, not knowing who was even left to hear it.  
  
Another spray of blaster fire slammed into the earth around them. 

***  
Jyn’s past experiences in combat had long since numbed her to the sounds of war. Her time with Saw’s partisans had acclimated both her mind and body to the roar of explosions, the glare of blaster fire, the heat of flames, and the sight of dying men. Still, however, there was something about this struggle which threatened to overwhelm her, and she felt her heart accelerate.

Adrenaline and panic caused her to grip Varus’s stun baton tightly (too tightly, a part of Jyn was afraid she’d lose her grip) and she let out a cry of defiance as she slammed it into the throat of the nearest stormtrooper. The man’s scream of agony was muffled by the blood pooling in his throat, but she did not pause to contemplate the fate of her assailant. Instead, she reattached the stun baton to her belt, drew the stormtrooper’s vibro-blade from his belt sheath, and unslung the E-11 she had just cast behind her to fire into the chest of a second trooper. Three blasts from the weapon sent him sprawling into the mud, and she simultaneously maneuvered her weight forward to knock aside another soldier’s rifle with her shoulders, creating an opening for her blade.

She let her maneuvers determine her movements, constantly dodging between stormtroopers, never giving them time to raise their rifles or reach for their own batons or blades. If her blade did not find a target, she deftly substituted a blast from the E-11, unleashing deadly, precise fusillades at point-blank range into her targets. She moved about her foes like a Loth-Cat: never still, never giving her adversaries the opportunity to raise their arms against her. For the first time since Jedha, she felt old instincts rising to the surface, instincts she’d learned in the heart of the Galaxy’s underworld.

She fired a three-round burst into the advancing squad, sending a group of stormtroopers flying back towards the remains of the landing craft. Adrenaline and exhaustion coursed through her veins simultaneously, and a part of her wondered what Cassian might think of her performance. She cut off that thought quickly, however. Now was not the time for distractions, for moments of hesitation. Her focus was required here and now, on the battle at hand. Nevertheless, Jyn allowed herself a moment’s satisfaction as she surveyed the battlefield around her.

“You always give me the easy missions, Cassian,” she muttered to herself, sending the lifeless bodies of a pair of ‘troopers collapsing into the remains of their comrades. “Don’t hurry yourselves on my account, I’m just beginning to enjoy this.”


	7. Chapter Five

**Chapter Five**

Jyn felt a fierce exultation pulsating through her blood, unlike anything she'd ever imagined. This was a fight she couldn't hope to win, and yet she felt eager for it. She wanted it, the chance for vengeance against the people who had taken so much away from her, and the blood-red taste of her own fury filled her with a blazing fire.

Most of the stormtroopers were dead. Jyn stood in the center of a pile of corpses, lashing out with vibroblade and stun baton and blaster rifle, cutting down her opponents one by with a raw defiance in her eyes. And yet they kept coming, rushing towards her with a ferocity she had only seen before in the eyes of Saw Gerrera’s partisans. These were not ordinary stormtroopers, she told herself. Though they wore the plain white armor of the Stormtrooper Corps, marred only by a single red stripe across the helmet, the Imperials fought without any sign of tiring or giving ground. 

The stormtroopers, however, weren’t her biggest concern.

The black armored troopers and the Shoretrooper had made their way around her left flank, and were now attempting to get the edge on her. There were four of them in number: the lead man wearing the insignia and gleaming crimson pauldrons of a commander, the Shoretrooper, a woman who also wore a Captain’s rank, and another, shorter woman wearing the insignia of a lieutenant. All of them had leveled their rifles, their expressions hidden behind their helmets, and she felt her right hand move instinctively towards the next power cell on her belt as she prepared herself for a fresh reload.

The Imperials were quick. Jyn was quicker.

She jerked her blaster upwards, slamming the trigger with rapid succession. Two more Stormtroopers fell, their bodies collapsing and splattering mud across their pristine white armor. Yet even as their comrades collapsed into the dust, the four dark-armored soldiers continued their relentless advance towards her, shrugging off her fire and closing in upon her without thought of compromise or respite. 

The Captain activated her vibroblade and lunged towards her, and Jyn timed her response perfectly. Just as she reached the very top of her leap, she raised up her stun baton to meet her, battering her blow aside, and she cried out in astonishment and horror as the blunt force of Jyn’s weapon slammed against her helmet, knocking it away. 

Upon seeing their commander accosted, the Shoretrooper and lieutenant charged after Jyn with a sudden shout, and she lunged forward, raising Varus’s baton to meet her assailant’s blows. She danced and maneuvered in around her enemies, pitting blinding speed and skill and intelligence against the brute power and cunning of her Imperial foe. It was a dance which could have only one ending, yet she drew out the fight far longer than even she would have believed possible before it began.

Her next blow caught the Shoretrooper in the face, knocking her helmet from her head to reveal a raven-haired, dark eyed figure with young and expressive features. A second strike took her off her feet, while a third, angled precisely at the bridge of the woman’s nose, sent her flying back into a collapsed heap of debris. A blast from the E-11 finished her opponent off, and the Shoretrooper rolled over, lifeless on the muddy hillside.

After a few moments, Jyn dashed into the fray again, intent on using the distraction provided by Cassian to catch the Imperial captain off-balance. The woman met Jyn’s approach with almost blinding speed, lowering her body weight and shifting into a guarding stance. She called out to her companions in alarm as she drew her vibro-blade and activated it, the violet energy surging down the fuller and illuminating it with an aura of blinding light. Jyn blocked the strike with a parry from her baton, twisting her weight so that the strike deflected away from her. Taken aback but undaunted by the assault, the Imperial raised her blade once more, charging towards Jyn with the tip of her weapon angled towards her breast. 

Momentum kept Jyn upright as she spun toward the lieutenant she had just been fighting. She lashed out with the baton, landed a solid blow against the Imperial’s helmet, and felt the weight of durasteel slamming against plastoid. The lieutenant attempted to retaliate, but a firm blow across the bridge of her nose sent her flying back into the mud, and she gave the unconscious Imperial a satisfied smirk as she steadied her balance and braced herself for her next opponent. Seeing this, the captain broke off the engagement, calling out her companion’s name as she staggered away to attend to her. 

"Jyn! Behind you!" Cassian shouted to her suddenly.

The man who had first engaged her had recovered from his momentary stupor, and had signaled his commander to flank around Jyn to the far side, in order to surround her. Jyn stumbled forward, exhausted from the rigors of combat, and swung her baton wildly towards the injured Captain’s face. She let the weight of the strike carry her through her first swing and let loose another solid, decisive strike to the Imperial as he attempted to recover. 

Jyn raised the baton once more, moving in for another strike. With all the momentum she could muster, she slammed her weapon into the face of the commander, fully expecting him to topple to the ground. Unfortunately, the trooper’s resolve was far greater than she anticipated. He thrust forward with the tip of his vibro-blade, and she felt a sting of pain lance across her right side. 

Since there hadn’t been much other than adrenaline and survival instincts keeping her on her feet, Jyn sank to her knees, too tired to even fight gravity on what suddenly seemed like a minor issue. She was knocked backwards, her body thrown to the ground. She looked up, only to see the Imperial commander standing over her. 

The man levelled his vibroblade, angling it directly at her throat, as he prepared to deliver the killing stroke.

Cassian was on top of him before he could finish the blow. He responded to Jyn’s plight almost immediately, whipping his blaster around towards the sound. Within a split second, he aimed his blaster, calling out to Jyn as he unleashed multiple rounds. The loud blasts rang out across the barren hillside, echoing through the thick ashen sky. The Imperial shrieked with anger and pain. He struggled to stay on his feet, still clutching the grip of his rifle as he sank to the ground.

Jyn looked back at him, astonished. “What the kriff just happened?”

“I think we’re even now,” Cassian replied, pausing to catch his breath. The pair of them gazed into each other’s eyes, breathing heavily. Neither could believe what had just happened, or how close it had been. 

“What do you mean, ‘even?’” she asked him.  
  
“You saved my life once, and now I’ve saved yours,” he explained. “We’re even now.”  
  
“No need to keep score, Cassian,” Jyn replied. “We’re alive and we’re together, and that’s what matters.”

“You’re right, Jyn,” he affirmed with a smile. “Now let’s get out of here.”

***

Jyn felt almost relieved as she stepped onto the now-deserted landing pad.

“Kriffing hell," she marveled as they looked around at the abandoned, cratered site. "The Imperials really have gone."

Cassian let out a heavy breath beside her, bringing his rifle to rest at his side. There was no one in the area. There were no shuttles, no starfighters, no spacecraft of any kind. As far as Jyn could tell, there was no sign of anyone, Rebel or Imperial alike. The Death Star had cleared the pad, scoured all trace of life from the surface. To any casual observer, there was very little evidence a battle had even taken place here.

If there were any more Imperial survivors, they had long since retreated. Cassian had been right.

Jyn’s legs felt shaky as the two of them descended towards the pad. A part of her still felt disturbed by the utter stillness of around them, the lack of conscious minds to fill the quiet, but at least they were out of the openness of the no-man’s-land between the archives and the beach. The fact that they had returned to a place that was somewhat recognizable brought her only a minute sense of reassurance, but it was a comfort nonetheless, a constant she could use for reference.

She collapsed against the wall of the security checkpoint, weary, starving, and in pain, but confident that Cassian would watch their backs while she tended to her injuries. Her side throbbed with every beat of her heart and had been bleeding freely. On top of that, grime and other substances coated the wound that she didn't want to think about.

Cassian leaned across from her on the opposite wall. "Are you alright?"

"One of the Imps grazed me," Jyn hissed as she poured water from her canteen over the wound to wash it out the best she could. The tepid water stung against the parted flesh, but it was at least better than nothing.

“Here, let me see.” Cassian moved closer, reaching out expectantly. Out of instinct, Jyn nearly pulled away, and he placed one arm gently around her to steady her nerves.  
  
“Trust me,” he said simply, and that was enough.

Jyn recoiled again, but she fought against the urge this time, allowing the captain to inspect her injury. She had grown used to Cassian’s tactile nature by this point. He felt more than he saw Cassian’s wince of sympathy.

“They got you good, didn’t they?” He mumbled, unbothered by the blood leaking onto his fingers. He removed a clean cloth and bacta patch from the med kit and wiped some of the mud away from the wound, his touch reassuring and gentle. The tenderness of his actions and the genuine softness of his emotions left Jyn feeling flushed and jittery, and she felt her heart race in her chest against her will.

“They did, but you got them worse,” she snarked back. Whether the bacta or her injury was making her sarcastic, she couldn’t tell, but she relished in the moment. Better to laugh about her injury than cry about it, she supposed.

Cassian continued attending to her, pulling his field gauze from the med-kit. Jyn watched him tear open the roll and set the bacta patch, then braced herself for another wave of pain as he wound the thin material around her side, tying it tightly. Blood began to seep through the gauze straight away, but there was little else they can do. At least the bacta would begin to mend the wound and prevent further infection, she reminded herself.

“There, all set,” Cassian told her, leaning back to admire his handiwork. Jyn sat up, relieved, and looked to him with a gentle smile.  
  
“Thank you,” she told him simply.

Her chest began to fill with an unfamiliar warmth, and she forced herself to look away. Her hand moved over the bandage unconsciously.

Their conversation fell flat soon enough, the desperate necessity of the situation sinking in once more. Cassian reloaded his rifle and moved off to inspect the area. Jyn heaved herself off the wall and followed close behind, trying not to let the throbbing in her side distract her as she braced her rifle against her own forearm, giving the impression of alertness.

***

Nightfall brought the darkness, and with it, the emptiness Jyn feared. 

She lay hunkered in the darkness, with Cassian asleep beside her, and her thoughts raced with endless things she couldn’t begin to understand. Not for the first time, hope for Jyn Erso felt as distant as the stars. 

The entrance to the cavern in her mind had been shattered by the Death Star, and she could only stare down at the rubble, down into the collapsed ruins of the life she had once led. Buried within the darkness lay the memories of her life before Scarif: memories of her childhood, of Saw, of her mother’s reassuring voice and her father’s unending devotion to her. Where she expected to see light peering through the crevices, she could see only dust and howling wind.

She thought of them now, of Mama and Papa and the little farm on Lah’mu. She thought of Jedha, of Bodhi Rook and Chirrut Imwe and Baze Malbus, of Saw Gerrera and the little girl she had saved from the Stormtroopers and all the others who had perished at the Death Star’s mercy. She let the thoughts resonate in the darkness for a time, let her broken mind scream into the emptiness of the cavern which had trapped her with all the strength and resolution her weary self could muster. It hurt to think of them, hurt to speak their names and think of their voices, but she forced herself to do it. 

Her thoughts wandered again, and she thought of the many people who had hurt her throughout her short life: criminals who had turned on her, the Partisans who had abandoned her, the Imperials who had imprisoned her. She thought of the Rebellion, of Mon Mothma and General Draven, and the other members of the Alliance Council who had refused to listen to her father’s message. She let a wave of anger wash over her, and she shuddered bitterly as a fresh wave of tears crept down her cheeks, pooling beside her in the darkness.

The tears consumed her then, a flood of anguish and unspeakable grief and guilt, and she did not attempt to resist. Tears for the comrades who had lived and died as unspoken heroes of Rogue One and the Alliance cause, tears for the men and women who she had allowed to die under her direct command. The fact that they had died in the face of overwhelming odds, or the fact that they had died with at least some measure of dignity intact, brought little comfort to her. They were still dead, and it had been her orders, her decisions, which had ended their existence. No words in any language could express her suffering, her unrelenting self-pity and helplessness that tore and clawed at the very corners of her soul. 

After what felt like an eternity, Jyn finally managed to rouse herself from her misery. She sat herself up unsteadily, as she stirred from her delirium, her breathing harsh and uneven, and pressed her palms against her face. Her eyes squinted, and she gazed around her blankly. Her entire body throbbed with unbearable pain, the world seemed to spin in an unending spiral of haze and confusion.

She interrupted the cycle of her thoughts just long enough to scrawl a series of names into the sand, names of the ones the rest of the galaxy had probably already dismissed and forgotten. She knew the sand would eventually be disturbed, that the names she inscribed into the dust would eventually be swept away into obscurity. But for now, she needed this. She needed to remember them, needed to remind herself of who they were and what they fought for. 

_Bodhi Rook._

The first name came to her naturally enough. Bodhi did deserve the honor, after all. Without his decision to defect, none of this would have ever happened. It was Bodhi who risked everything to deliver word of her father and the Death Star to the Alliance. Bodhi, who piloted the team to Edau so that she could meet with him face-to-face. Bodhi, who had christened the shuttlecraft _Rogue One_ and delivered the message to the Fleet to take down the shield gate. 

“ _His spirit will be remembered_ ,” she whispered, placing a shard of broken scrap metal next to her makeshift monument. “Through his determination, we made it here, and through his sacrifice, some of us might make it home.” 

The wind whistling across the ruins was the only reply. It rustled her hair about the back of her neck, and she shuddered as a chill worked its way down her spine. Whether the chill came from the cold of the wind or the sadness of the memories she could not tell, and she forced herself to swallow a sob as she scrawled another name into the sand. 

_Chirrut Imwe._

She wrote his name slowly, carefully, taking the time to space the letters evenly. Her breath, which moments before had been ragged and uneven, now slowed to a more rhythmic steadiness, and she forces herself into a state of calm. As she breathed, she tried her best to take in her surroundings. The wind, the waves, the, colors of the distant sunset, all became far more apparent to her as she took time to breathe. 

Her fingers closed around the Kyber crystal necklace her mother had given her, and she lifted it from around her neck and squeezed it tightly for protection, as she had in the darkness of the cave so long ago. It seemed to soothe her errant thoughts, and she whispered a series of words into the wind, letting her mind ease as she spoke.

 _“The Force is with me, I am one with the Force,”_ she proclaimed softly. Not that there were any Imperials around to hear her, or any Rebels, for that matter. It simply felt more fitting, considering Chirrut’s connection to the universe around him. 

_“I am one with the Force, the Force is with me.”_ She continued the mantra, focusing her breathing to match the sound of the words. _“I am one with the Force, the Force is with me.”_

As she meditated, Jyn became aware of the sound of footsteps approaching. She glanced up, reaching instinctively for the rifle Cassian had given her. Loading it, she aimed it towards the opening of the survival shelter,, bracing her injured side for the shock of the recoil. She peered through the electroscope. No troopers were present outside. Cautiously, Jyn lowered the blaster. 

A figure appeared before her, wreathed in a bluish white aura of brilliant light. He was dressed in plain and robes, carrying a simple wooden staff. The man’s face was obscured by a dark hood, but Jyn could recognize his appearance even before he turned his head towards her. 

“Chirrut? Is that you?” 

_“I went by that name in my past life,”_ the figure answered. _“Now I am nameless. Names no longer have a meaning to me now. I am one with the Force, Jyn Erso, and the Force is one with me.”_

“H-how…?” Jyn stammered. 

“How did I get here?” Chirrut answered. “I believe you know the answer to that already, my old friend.” 

Jyn turned her head, perplexed by the nature of the mystic’s reply. After a few moments, she decided to venture a guess. 

“The Force?” she asked him cautiously. 

_“Indeed, Jyn,”_ the Guardian of the Whills said, nodding his head slowly. _“As I told you before, the Force has always been strong in me. Through it, I have found peace.”_

“But how is that possible? I thought only Jedi could become one with the Force, and even so I always assumed it was a myth…” 

_“The Force works in mysterious ways, Jyn Erso. I myself am not a Jedi, and even I do not fully understand how I came to be here.”_

“I feel the same way, I must admit,” Jyn muttered, more to herself than to Chirrut’s projection. 

_“What was that?”_ Chirrut asked, resting his head upon his staff. 

She exhaled deeply, allowing her pain to surface. “When I first met you and Cassian, I was a broken, frightened girl afraid of her past. Now, I’m even more broken, except now I’m worried for my future.” 

_“Whose future are you truly concerned for? Your own, or Captain Andor’s?”_

“I honestly do not know. Cassian’s, I suppose,” Jyn admitted. It was a truthful enough answer, she was indeed concerned as to why he hadn’t checked in with her in quite some time. At this, the Force-ghost of Chirrut nodded; his eyes slowly closed as he lost himself deep in contemplation. 

_“And I suspect you… care for him?”_ the Guardian’s spirit asked, after a moment. 

At this question, Jyn paused, considering it in her mind for a long time. Did she truly care about Cassian? She couldn’t really answer, truthfully, but she managed a weak nod. She cared enough, at least, to know he was her best chance of survival. They had, after all, made it this far together. 

The visage of Chirrut smiled. _“I sense your doubt, Jyn Erso. Your path is unclear to you, and you are afraid.”_

“I don’t want to be left alone again, Chirrut,” Jyn confessed. “I’ve been abandoned so many times throughout my life that I’ve forgotten what it means to belong to something… to someone.” 

The old sage smiled. _“You will never be alone, as long as you trust in the Force. It will guide you, and protect you in ways no words can describe. Through the Force, I found guidance and tranquility. Through the Force, I believe you can find the inner peace you seek.”_

“Are you saying I am a Jedi?” Jyn asked. 

_“The ways of the Jedi are long past,”_ Chirrut said to her solemnly. _“Their twilight hour is already upon them. “I cannot sense for certain if their power will someday return, but I can sense that the Force is indeed a part of you. A Jedi you are not, but you are nonetheless gifted with its power.”_

“Like my mother?” Jyn asked. “She told me stories of the Jedi, of the Force and its mystical ways. I didn’t believe them, I thought they were all just fantastical myths. But now… after what happened to me on the beach, I guess I’m not certain what I believe anymore.” 

_“The Force is strong with many in the galaxy,”_ Chirrut said. _“I believe it chose you because you are a fighter. Remember what I told you back on Jedha. The strongest stars have hearts of kyber.”_

Jyn paused. “What does that even mean?” she asked. “I’ve heard that before, from my mother, but I never understood it.” 

_“What do you think it means, Jyn Erso?” Chirrut asked._

“I…” She paused, wiping the tears from her eyes. “I do not know.” 

_“Learn the answer to that question, Jyn, and you will learn to find the peace you seek,”_ the Force-spirit told her confidently, pausing to look into her eyes. _“I thank you for taking the time to remember me.”_

“My pleasure, Chirrut,” Jyn replied. 

_“I must go now,_ ” he replied, his spirit kneeling to face her. _“Keep your friends close, and the Force closer. If you do, it will help you in… unexpected ways.”_

“I will keep it in mind,” Jyn murmured, looking upwards towards the darkening heavens. “Thank you for giving your strength to me.” 

As Chirrut’s Force-ghost turned to depart from her, Jyn called out to him. 

"Chirrut?" 

"Yes?" The Guardian turned back, cocking his head at her question. 

"Did Baze...?” She cut the sentence off, for the Guardian appeared to understand her question before she finished asking it. He gave her a knowing nod.

_"He died as he lived. My protector. My friend. He waits for me."_

Jyn looked back at him, perplexed. "You mean...?" 

_"He too, has become one with the Force,”_ Chirrut answered. _“He cannot manifest in physical form as can I, but he is here."_

Jyn wiped away her tears, nodding. "Wish him well for me, old friend."

 _"I will,”_ Chirrut Imwe replied. _“The Force will be with you, Jyn Erso. Believe in it, and it will protect you. Always."_

With that, Chirrut’s Force manifestation disappeared into the coming darkness, and she was left in the darkness once more, with only a sleeping Cassian by her side.

A feeling of emptiness washed over Jyn, and she couldn’t help but cry. Her tears rolled down her cheeks, and she had to turn her head away from her makeshift memorial to keep from disturbing the names written in the sand. Yet, she forced herself to remain resolute. Carefully, she scrawled another name into the sand:

 _Baze Malbus_.

It was almost morning by the time she finished. The rain pounded the emergency shelter outside, and she gently placed a piece of armorplast over the monument, in order to shelter it from the coming storm. Before she did so, she inscribed two more names into the sand.

_Galen Erso_

_Lyra Erso_

When she finished, she rolled over and gently placed one hand over Cassian’s shoulder, holding him tight to her for comfort.

She would tell him about what she saw in the morning, she decided.


	8. Supplemental Data #2

**SUPPLEMENTAL DATA #2:**

**[Encoded personal transmission NC56924: from Commander Jan Ors to Mon Mothma, regarding the reliability of mercenary Kyle Katarn.]**

_ CODED TRANSMISSION: JAN ORS TO MON MOTHMA _

_ SUBJECT: Reliability of Kyle Katarn _

_ I understand there are questions regarding our continued use of Kyle as a freelance agent, both because of his background in Imperial service and his continued status as an occasional nonaligned mercenary rather than committing to regular service for the Alliance.  _

_ It's easy to see how certain individuals who either encountered him during his time with the Empire, or lost friends or loved ones during operations he commanded, could harbor such doubts. In fact, though, it is precisely his experience in Imperial service that has turned him solidly against the Empire, and will, I believe, eventually convince him of the necessity of the Alliance. I think you'll agree when I fill in more of his personal history.  _

_ Kyle came from Sulon, the moon of Sullust. Like many of our outworld recruits, he came from farmer stock, with a warm, close- knit family background. He adored his father, an agricultural machine salesman and mechanic with personal ties to the rural community he served. Kyle sought training at the Academy only to better follow in his father's footsteps when he returned home.  _

_ At the Academy he discovered a natural gift for cybernetics systems theory and information engineering. The time spent on his studies, extracurricular martial arts and target-shooting classes left little time to worry about political rumors or changes in curriculum and policy, as the Empire consolidated its hold on the Academy. His quiet student existence was shattered when he received Imperial notification that a Rebel ambush had killed his parents during an Imperial rescue operation. The final blow came when the Academy refused to extend funeral leave.  _

_ At the time Kyle had no reason to doubt what was clearly an Imperial cover-up. Overwhelmed by pain and a burning hatred for the Rebels who had supposedly killed his parents, Kyle accepted a commission in the special operations division of the Imperial Stormtrooper Corps. It was there he learned the true face of the Empire.  _

_ I first came to know him several years later when I was working as a mole and double agent within the Imperial Intelligence Corps. Repeated contacts with Kyle showed me the scars he hid beneath a veneer of quiet competence, and the growing disillusionment with the Stormtrooper Corps and all it represented. I saw to it that the reports detailing the real story of the Imperial raid on Sullust came his way, and our friendship continued to deepen. _

_ When my cover was blown and I was taken prisoner, Kyle ended his service in the Stormtrooper Corps by engineering my escape from torture and helping me get off the planet to a Rebel base. He joined me there a few days later on his way to the rim worlds where, in the company of smugglers and pirates, he was able to acquire the further skills of sabotage and subterfuge that have made him so valuable to our cause. _

_ I knew then, when we said goodbye, that he was not ready for a full commitment to the Alliance. The emotional manipulation he has endured at the hands of the Empire has hardened him against causes and made the idealistic, trusting young man into a deadly, efficient saboteur whose loyalty must be earned rather than bought. _

_ One thing is certain. Kyle may never fully trust the Alliance, but he will never forgive or forget what the Empire has done to him. Yes, he saved my life and is perhaps the most effective covert agent available to our cause, but it is hatred of the Empire that will ensure his reliability to us. It is sad but true that ongoing imperial atrocities and disregard for life continue to provide our best hope for recruits. _

_ Jan Ors _

_ Commander, Rebel Alliance Intelligence _


	9. Chapter Six

**Chapter Six**

**Yavin 4- Rebel Alliance Headquarters** **  
** **Approximately one day after the Rebel Alliance's return from the Battle of Scarif**

“I wonder what the Rebellion wants from me this time?” Kyle Katarn mused, as the shuttle began its descent towards the hangar bay. 

The petite, dark haired Alliance commander beside him smirked in reply. “Whatever it is, Kyle, it has to be important.” 

“I agree, Jan. It’s not often they come calling for me anymore. Not after the last mission they sent me on.” He shook his head, trying to force the unpleasant memories out of his mind.

“Whatever it is, Kyle, it has to be big,” Jan noted. “After all, Mon Mothma herself sent for you. If the C in C of Alliance High Command has a request, I have no doubts that it’s important.” 

“Especially after the news from Scarif,” Kyle affirmed. “We knew that getting the Death Star plans would be hell, especially after what happened to us on Danuta, but I didn’t expect it to be this bad.” 

“Danuta, right.” 

He shook his head, remembering the ill-fated mission. Alliance intelligence had tracked a copy of the Death Star plans to the planet, and it had been up to Kyle to slip in, retrieve the plans, and extract from the facility. However, things hadn’t exactly gone to plan. Somehow, the Imperials had been made aware of the infiltration, and it had taken Kyle every ounce of training he had to successfully escape the facility unscathed. Even then, the mission had been only a partial success, for the plans they had retrieved were only partial schematics, part of a larger set of plans whose master copies were stored in the archive on Scarif. In his mind’s eye, he heard himself screaming over the com for Jan, calling out desperately for extraction. Once again, he could feel the howling of the Danutan wind against his back, could smell the scent of blaster plasma and industrial chemicals all around him. 

Yet even as the memories raced through Kyle’s mind, they paled in comparison to those of the debriefing, of the long, arduous account of his mission and the utter disbelief of the Alliance council. A half-snarl of contempt bared his teeth, and his pace quickened as he recalled the moment. The Council’s silence, the stunned gasp that crossed Mon Mothma’s face as he openly accused her of denying him the support he needed. The gazes that crossed the briefing room as the leader of the Rebellion explained how the Alliance had been unable to locate sufficient forces to assist him, and Draven’s bitter accusation of how his sudden decision to attack the Danuta garrison had been enacted in direct defiance of his standing orders.

He remembered the exchange of heated words between them, the threat of court-martial, and the clang of metal against ceramacrete as he finally ripped his rank insignia from his collar and hurled it to the ground in rage. Mostly, however, he remembered Jan: the pleading expression as she begged him to stay, the stunned shock in her amber eyes as she realized it was far too late. 

Oh, yes, he remembered. And, despite his hatred, he knew the Rebellion had been right to doubt his reason for abandoning his assigned mission. The odds had been astronomically against him, and yet he had pressed on in spite of their warnings. He had defied the Empire, had risked his life and his career and his very existence for the sake of this hopeless endeavor, and he had received no thanks for his efforts in return. Instead he had been chastised, turned away for his audacity and reprimanded for his initiative instead of rewarded for it. 

He dropped back into the shuttle’s seat, turning to face Jan. Her eyes gazed forlornly into his, as if trying, however futile the effort might be, to understand his pain. And yet, even as he felt a degree of appreciation for her sympathy, deep inside himself he knew that she would never truly understand. 

Kyle’s hands clenched tightly into fists, and he closed his eyes. The Rebellion had failed him. They refused to believe his reports about the Death Star, only permitting him to go to Danuta after weeks of long discussion and endless debate. Yet, even after they finally agreed to his proposal, they had sent him alone into the heart of an Imperial installation with neither reinforcement nor support and only a light freighter to use as an extraction ship. And, after all was said and done, they refused to acknowledge his mission’s success, citing the incomplete data file and his blatant disregard for orders as grounds for questioning his competence. After all, he had based his decision to attack an Imperial installation on nothing but a few unsubstantiated civilian rumors and the interrogation of a single Imperial soldier. Such second-hand rumors, they had told him were hardly sufficient enough to justify such a rash and impulsive decision.

But in a way that was all right, Kyle told himself. He forced his hands to unclench, savoring the thought of the fear that rippled through the council chambers as he presented his findings to High Command. He recalled the senators recoiling at the sight of the prototype super-laser, savored the moment when even the stoic General Draven flinched at the mere mention of the weapon’s specifications. That alone, Kyle reassured himself, had been enough to numb the poignancy of his failure. Because of his efforts, the Alliance had been made aware of the existence of an Imperial superweapon. 

Kyle had been right about the Death Star. The Alliance might have initially dismissed the Danutan files as incomplete, but the events of Jedha and Scarif had all but confirmed their accuracy.

“I still want to know who the hell alerted the Empire to our arrival,” Kyle muttered half coherently, shaking his head to clear it of the memories. “We took every precaution during that mission and we were still ambushed.” 

Jan shrugged, shaking her head. “Search me, Kyle. I was just your extraction.”

“The Alliance should have sent me to Scarif, not Erso and Andor. I wouldn’t have attracted attention to myself, or compromised the base security. She was wrong to go in with guns blazing. Any reasonable intelligence officer knows that stealth is key to undercover operations.” 

“Erso wasn’t trained, Kyle,” Jan pointed out. “She was an ex-convict, leading a bunch of outcasts and renegades on a final mission to prove to the galaxy that the Death Star was a real threat. I don’t care what her methods were, you have to admit, that was a gutsy move.” 

“One that got her entire team killed,” Kyle scoffed, rolling his eyes. “The Alliance should have known better than to send an untrained criminal to do an intelligence officer’s job.” 

“If you reread the briefing I gave you, I believe you’ll find that Jyn sent herself to Scarif, Kyle. The Alliance tried to stop her. There’s only one other man I know who would have tried something like that.” 

“He died on Danuta,” Kyle replied somberly.

*** 

The Alliance briefing room was full of officers when Kyle and Jan entered, escorted by a pair of guards.

A pair of officers, whom Kyle immediately recognized as Mon Mothma and General Davits Draven, greeted them. An aura of resolute energy seemed to surround the former, and Kyle could practically feel the power of her mind. Draven, however, was cold and stoic, his dark eyes dismissive and filled with uncertainty. 

“Commander Katarn. Good to see you again.” The Commander in Chief of the Rebellion extended her hand in a cordial handshake. Her expression was neutral, her eyes serene. 

“It’s just “Agent” Katarn now,” Kyle corrected. “I’m not part of your Alliance anymore.” 

The Senator nodded. “Jan told me about your father, Kyle. I am sorry for your loss; he was a good agent of ours." 

Kyle, surprised that she knew about his father, forgot his manners. "You knew my father?" 

Mon Mothma shook her head. "Not personally, but through a mutual friend, a Jedi named Rahn. He had a high level of respect for your father and sent his condolences." Kyle was stunned. His father had known a Jedi? And earned the Jedi's respect? What else had been concealed from him? 

He bit off this last thought and nodded, finally accepting the Senator’s greeting with a tentative shake of her hand. 

“Once again, I have to apologize for what happened after Danuta. Given recent events, I feel it only fair to extend a formal apology from the Alliance to yourself.” 

Kyle nodded, fighting to keep the sarcasm out of his tone. “I accept your apology, Ma’am, but don’t expect me to come running back into your good graces. I thought I made it plain that I don’t make it a priority to meddle in Rebellion affairs now. Personally, I must admit that I haven’t missed the life of a Fulcrum agent all that much.” 

“And has the life of a mercenary treated you any better?” Draven interrupted. 

Kyle nodded. “It’s serviced me well enough.” 

Draven shook his head. "And yet, Commander Ors tells me that you want to help her complete her assignment by assisting us. Why?" 

Kyle, who hadn't expected any sort of challenge, was taken aback. That being the case, his words were more direct, more honest than they might otherwise have been. 

“My motivation is simple, General. I want to find the people who murdered my father and kill them." 

Jan, who watched the proceedings from the corner of the room, lifted an eyebrow. Though understandable, a desire for revenge could cloud Kyle's judgment, and lead to mistakes. That being the case, she expected Mon Mothma to dismiss him on the spot and was surprised when she didn't.

"I understand how you feel, Kyle, believe me, we all do, but we must struggle to remain objective. The people who killed your father were evil, but the greater evil lies behind them, and sits on a stolen throne. Once we defeat that, once we defeat Palpatine, the murderers will be found. So, tell me, could you put your personal needs aside long enough to tackle a mission so important, it may change the course of the Rebellion?"

Kyle felt his emotions colliding in his mind. A healthy dose of skepticism, a leavening of fear, and pride at being asked. "Yes, Senator. I think so, anyway."

Mon Mothma weighed him with her eyes. "Good. May the Maker help me if I'm wrong, but I'm going to take a chance on you, and hope for the best. Watch the center of the table. I have a story to tell." Mon Mothma regarded the slowly morphing holo with obvious distaste.

“As you are well aware, the Death Star plans were secured at a secret Imperial Archives on the world of Scarif, but were successfully captured by Sergeant Jyn Erso and her partner Captain Cassian Andor. Although the plans are now en route to Alliance High Command, the entirety of the Alliance force, including Erso and Andor, were supposedly wiped out when the Death Star fired upon the installation. Very little is known about the state of the planet following the use of the battle station’s superweapon, but more recent intelligence suggests that the planet itself survived the blast. Unfortunately, that same intelligence cannot provide us estimates regarding the probability of survivors.” 

”Survivors, Ma’am? I thought the Death Star was designed to be a planet-killer.” 

The Senator nodded in acknowledgement. “Initially, we shared your doubts, Kyle. However, recent events have caused us to rethink our analysis." 

"Events?" Kyle inquired. "What sort of events?" 

"We’ve managed to decode a small portion of a transmission sent from Scarif,” she explained. “I thought it only fair to warn you that this mission could be more dangerous than we originally anticipated.” 

Kyle cocked his head. “What exactly do you mean by ‘more dangerous, Ma’am?’” 

Draven raised his voice, interrupting Mothma before the Senator could speak. “I thought you might ask that, Katarn. I’ll be blunt with you: we’re sending you and Captain Ors to Scarif.”

Kyle cocked his head. “Scarif, General? We have the Death Star plans. What else could we possibly need from that desolate rock?”   
  
“We believe that there may be survivors on the surface,” Draven replied. “Or at least some of us believe it.” He turned to Mon Mothma, who affirmed his statement. 

“The Death Star is one hell of a weapon, Ma’am,” Kyle muttered. Forgive me for saying this, but any probability that someone is still out there is likely to be quite low.” 

“That was our initial thought as well, Commander,” Mon Mothma replied. “However, following our departure from the system, a flight of Longprobe Y-Wings from the Abrion System’s local cell managed to intercept a fragmented transmission from Scarif while conducting a series of after-action reports following the battle. From what they informed us, a pilot conducting one of one of those flights managed to transmit this signal from her spacecraft just before she was lost in action. Upon delivering the transmission to Command, we descrambled it, and what we uncovered is…well… listen for yourselves.”

She motioned to Draven, who handed her a holodisk. The lights dimmed, and the voice of a man spoke over the com, panicked and distressed, occasionally interrupted that of a younger woman. Both sounded frightened, as if faced with the shadow of death itself. 

_ “This is Rogue One to any Alliance assets in the region. We’re pinned down out here. Everything’s gone. The Citadel, the beach… all of it. We’re holed up in an Imperial bunker beneath the security complex, but it’s collapsing all around us even as we speak. My companion is in dire need of medical attention. Repeat. This is Rogue One calling the Alliance. Please. Get us out of…” _

The transmission ended abruptly, and the lights flickered back on. Kyle turned back to Mon Mothma, a confused expression on his face. 

“Can you confirm the validity of this transmission? For all we know it could be an Imperial decoy.” 

Draven shook his head. “I doubt it. The signal came through on an Alliance frequency.” 

Kyle shook his head. “What the hell does any of this have to do with me, with my mission?” he demanded, glaring into the officers’ eyes. 

“Tell me, Commander,” Mon Mothma asked him, “what exactly do you know about Rogue One?” 

“Initially, I just assumed they were some of your operatives, Pathfinders sent to raid the Archives vaults. However, Jan later informed me that they hadn’t been sent by the Council at all, but instead defied your orders, stole a shuttle, and managed to do what I couldn’t: steal the Death Star plans. Though, upon hearing about them,” he added, more to himself than to the others in the room, “I probably should have stuck around. I could have taught them a thing or two about operational security.”    
  
“Erso is not too different from you, Agent Katarn,” Draven retorted. “I don’t ever recall giving you explicit orders to attack the Danuta complex, either.”

Mon Mothma overheard this last remark and frowned. “Regardless of their standing within the Alliance, or yours, for that matter, this transmission we have just received means we now have reason to believe they might still be out there.” 

“You mean they somehow survived that superweapon the Empire has floating around out there?” Kyle interrupted, shaking his head. “I don’t know about you, Senator, but I have my reservations about anything surviving that level of destruction. Trust me, Ma’am, I know from personal experience that when the Empire does a job, they do it as cleanly and efficiently as possible. Your little team of renegades is long dead, and if they aren’t, I have a damn good suspicion that some member of the Imperial chain of command intends to sweep every inch of that planet to ensure that they don’t survive again.” 

“Very perceptive, Commander Katarn,” Mon Mothma replied. “Which is why time is of the essence. If Rogue One is indeed alive on Scarif, they don’t have very much time. Further intelligence suggests that the Imperials might soon be moving on the facility in an attempt to recover the data contained within the Archives. We have no estimates as to a timeframe as of yet, but we do know that the nature of the Scarif data was highly sensitive, and that it contained highly classified briefs on a number of highly classified Imperial weapons projects.” 

“So, you’re basically asking me to risk my life and the life of my copilot in the heart of enemy territory based on nothing but the vain hope that a handful of your personnel survived an Imperial superweapon? Sounds less like a mission and more like glorified suicide.” He turned to face the pair of officers. “You know I’m done messing with Alliance business. All it’s given me is pain and hardship.”

Mon Mothma turned to him. “If you accept this mission, Commander, we'll double your usual fee... and provide you with information regarding the massacre on Sullust."

Jan turned back to Kyle.    
  
“What do you think, Jan?” Kyle asked. “Do you think I should risk everything and go running off to Scarif based on nothing but a forlorn hope?”

“I don’t know this Erso girl, personally, but from what I’ve heard, I think she’s a lot like you,” Jan replied. “If you were willing to defect and save my life, and defy High Command’s orders because you felt there was something more at stake, “I’m willing to risk going to Scarif to save anyone I can.”

“The pay seems good too,”Kyle added with a smirk. “More than double the usual fee… I think I can get behind that.” He turned back to the 

“In that case,” Kyle replied, “I’m in.”

Mon Mothma nodded, handing him a data-disk. “Your orders are here, Agent Katarn. I suggest you familiarize yourself with the mission parameters prior to departure. If you have any questions, Jan can brief you while en-route to the rendezvous point.”

The agent cocked his head. “Rendezvous point? Might I inquire as to who we might be meeting, Senator?”

“Local cell,” Jan answered, before Mon Mothma could open her mouth to reply. “I have a contact within the Abrion sector defense network whose resistance forces have been fighting against the Empire for quite some time. She intended to join Sergeant Erso over Scarif, but various circumstances prevented her from doing so in time for the battle.”

“Lucky for her,” Kyle scoffed. “Those circumstances probably saved her life.”

“Perhaps,” Jan continued, “but the point is she’s agreed to meet with us to help with the extraction efforts. I’ve no doubt she can be trusted; my go-between confirmed her loyalty to the Alliance is absolute.”

Kyle shook his head. “Loyalties change all the time, Jan. Look at me.”

“I know you probably don’t trust anyone in the Alliance, Kyle,” Mon Mothma interrupted, “but I have it on good authority that Commander Ors’ contact is a loyal ally. I have no reason to doubt the validity of the intelligence given to me. However, some Rebel cells have their own agenda. Be on alert, both of you.”

The two agents nodded affirmatively. Mon Mothma turned to face Kyle.

“Remember Agent Katarn, there is zeal and rashness on one side and strategy and calculation on the other. If you make the right choice, Jan will see you through any trouble you might have with your new allies.”

Kyle nodded. “She usually does.”

The senator smiled reassuringly. “In that case, Commander, I’ll leave the two of you alone to finish your briefing. Good luck to you both, and may the Force be with you.”


	10. Chapter Seven

**Chapter Seven**

Jan Ors felt lonely and somewhat dismayed as she made her way through a maze of corridors, passageways, and drop shafts to the Massassi temple’s hangar level. In spite of the fact that her companion had been granted the very thing he'd hoped for, a chance to reclaim recognition by the Alliance, there was none of the "hail fellow well met '' camaraderie either of them had expected. Just an impossible mission, minimal support, and a none-too-emotional parting of the ways. Yes, Mon Mothma and General Draven had both shaken Kyle’s hand, and Jan herself had given him reassurance that she would support him however she could. Yet even these simple formalities were not enough to convince Jan that the Alliance truly believed in Kyle or the mission they were about to embark upon. While all these things seemed pleasant enough, they were not exactly the sort of sendoff the Alliance generally lavished on departing heroes. It seemed that no matter how many times Kyle sought out respect from his former superiors, he was and would forever be an outsider to the greater Rebellion. And Jan, by nature of her connection to Kyle Katarn, would forever be considered a part of his disgrace. 

Oh well, she told herself. She and Kyle were reunited again, which beat the heck out of taking orders from General Draven. That was something she was truly tired of.

A horn beeped, Jan stepped out of the way, and allowed the auto cart to pass. The hangar bay was just ahead and she stepped into the open chamber before her. A group of technicians continued their noisy debate as they crowded in behind her. The discussion centered around the question of which one of the base’s meals was worse: breakfast, lunch, or dinner. Jan cast a silent vote for breakfast, smiled when dinner won, and followed the group of Rebels out into the hangar where an avalanche of stimuli assailed her senses. 

The hangar bay was crammed with X-wing starfighters, assault shuttles, and a bewildering array of other craft. It was almost impossible to hear herself think over the screech of power cutters, the rattle of chain hoists, the whine of hydrospanners, and the announcements made via the over amplified PA system. Not only that, but where Jan had encountered just the occasional whiff of ozone aboard the cruiser which had borne the two of them to Yavin, she now inhaled a rich amalgam of exhaust fumes, fresh paint, hot metal, bonding agents, cleaning compounds, and lubricants. The total effect was overwhelming. 

Her thoughts were suddenly interrupted as a figure waved to her from a corner of the hangar. She glanced towards the movement, half-expecting Senator Mothma or another of her supporters. She was surprised, however, to find the stoic form of Davits Draven standing solemnly before one of the Alliance fighters, his eyes unmoved in the slightest by the commotion around him. 

“Captain Ors?”

She halted abruptly, saluting him with an awkward movement of her hand. “General,” she said flatly.

"So? What do you think?"

“About the mission?” Jan mused.

“No,” Draven replied frankly. “About Agent Katarn.”

Jan shrugged. "He's scared - but who wouldn't be? The chances for survival are slim."

The intelligence agent probed her defenses deeper. "And that bothers you, Commander?"

"Yes." There was no sense in lying; Draven’s training was undoubtedly more attuned to sense attempts at deceit or deception than hers was. Besides, Jan told herself, there was nothing to hide.

Draven probed further. "Do the two of you have a relationship?"

She shook her head. "Not in the sense you mean. No."

"Could you kill him if you had to?" The General’s eyes were cold, like a pair of durasteel orbs.

Jan frowned. "Yes, if he deserved it. What are you suggesting?"

Draven turned. Their eyes met. "Katarn is an ex-Stormtrooper who failed to deliver the Death Star plans to us after his unauthorized mission to Danuta. If he could fail the Alliance once, there is a possibility he could fail again."

Jan shook her head. “Let’s get one thing clear, Sir. We were authorized to enter the system to complete the assignment you had given us. We weren’t authorized to go off on our own to engage an enemy base alone.”

“And that disregard for the chain of command is precisely why I am forced to doubt Katarn’s word about his loyalties,” the General frowned. “If he disobeyed us once, who’s to say he won’t simply disregard us again and go running off on his own accord at the first sign of opportunity?”

Jan struggled with conflicting emotions. "I have no reason to doubt him, General. Don't forget about the missions he’s completed for us in the past, or the fact he went to Danuta in the first place. Not to mention the fact that the Imperials killed his father."

Draven turned back to face her again. "Yes, but he’s still an ex-Imperial officer with no regard for our procedures or respect for our authority. The council has agreed that he cannot currently be trusted, which is why I want you to follow Katarn, watch his every move, and kill him at the first sign of treachery. Can you do it?" 

Jan nodded. "If I have to. But what then?"

"The only thing better than a well-laid plan is a well-conceived backup plan,” Draven replied. “Our forces in the Abrion sector may have a shot at extracting survivors from Scarif as well. The problem is that while the local cell is closer to the Imperial facility, they lack the expertise in covert operations required to successfully complete the operation. You and Agent Katarn, on the other hand, are trained Fulcrum operatives. You know how to infiltrate Imperial facilities… and how to avoid detection.” Jan grimaced as the reminder of Danuta was rammed into her consciousness. 

"You could send someone else,” Jan suggested. “I was a prisoner of the Empire for quite some time, Sir. I think I know how they operate well enough."

The General shook his head. "Katarn was one of them - he knows how they think. Besides, sending too many Alliance agents to Scarif will only further the losses Intelligence has already sustained." Draven shook his head. “You of all people should know, since I personally assigned you as Captain Andor’s replacement in the field shortly after word of his fate reached us.”   
  
“To which I informed you, Sir, that I was neither trained nor qualified to replace him.”Her words took on the sound of an accusation. "I refuse to believe Kyle is expendable. He’s a brilliant agent, and I would trust him with my life." 

Draven allowed his hands to fall- The resentment in Jan's eyes was plain to see. So was her duty to the Alliance.

"Yes, Jan,” Davits Draven said in a very cold voice. “Kyle is expendable. So was Captain Andor, and so are you and I. It’s in our job description, a part of the very nature of our operations. Forget everything you heard in that briefing room, Commander. If your operation is compromised in any way, there will be no extraction. At the first sign of treachery, you know what to do. Do you understand?"

Jan shook her head. “I can’t believe this. You’re asking me to kill one of our own?”

“I already lost one agent when he failed to execute my orders, Commander Ors. I don’t intend to lose another. This mission is a waste of our resources, and I do not condone it. But seeing as powers far above me deem it necessary to the Rebellion’s survival, I intend to comply and allow this suicidal operation to continue. However, I will not allow another Eadu to occur.” 

“Captain Andor did what was right, Sir,” Jan told him with a defiant glare. She had read the after-action report from the Eadu mission, and she highly doubted Cassian Andor would directly disobey an order without an explicit reason.

Draven however, was less convinced of his former operative’s convictions. “Your opinion is noted, c ommander , however, the fact remains that Captain Andor disobeyed a direct order from me. Surely the briefing you received prior to your appointment as his replacement informed you as much?”

Jan nodded slowly. “Yes, Sir,” she said under her breath. It was a total lie, but she couldn’t risk raising the older man’s ire, not this close to her departure. With his authority, Draven could easily arrest Jan for defying him, or order her to stand down the entire operation. 

“Then you will not hesitate to carry out the orders you have been given, in spite of your reservations?” he asked, his voice firm.

“I will not fail, General,” she muttered under her breath. “You have my word.” She did her best to sound sincere, but her voice wavered for a moment as she uttered the last syllable. 

Draven affirmed her with a nod. “In that case, you’d best be off. Good luck, Commander Ors. You and Katarn will need it.”

“Yes Sir,” Jan replied coldly, and turned away from the General towards the corner of the hangar where her ship was waiting for her. 

***   
The  _ Moldy Crow _ was not a standard-issue Alliance ship. The vessel stuck out like a sore thumb among the starfighters and medium transports docked in the main hangar, its angular main hull jutting out from its flattened engine nacelles like the head of a large raptor. Like most of her kind, the courier ship had been built for speed, with scant attention paid to creature comforts. That same Corellian efficiency had been retained even in the weaponry which had been fitted to her in her military life. A pair of medium blaster cannons, taken from a captured Imperial craft, protruded from beneath the fuselage, and four sets of dual laser cannons had been fitted to the engine pods.

Jan smirked slightly as she surveyed the ship. The modifications she had approved before Danuta were still fitted, and judging by the damage acquired by the vessel since that mission, Kyle had made plenty of use of them. In a way, she thought to herself, Katarn owed her for the Crow. He had survived the last mission because of her upgrades to the light freighter, and the Alliance had, in its own way, seen to it that that debt would be paid.

Assuming, of course, that Cassian Andor was still alive. 

Perhaps Kyle was right, she thought to herself, a hint of doubt rising to the surface. Perhaps Andor and Erso were in fact dead, and the transmission the Y-Wing flight had intercepted over Scarif was little more than an Imperial decoy. The possibility was real enough, and she braced herself for the possibility that this mission might be an exercise in futility.

Yet even as she considered that possibility, she still allowed herself to hope. After all, she told herself, hope had given the Rebellion the plans for the Imperial battle station, plans that even now were being studied and analyzed in an attempt to find the weak point Jyn Erso had spoken of. Hope had allowed the Alliance to stand together, even in the face of the enemy that threatened to divide them. Hope had given Andor and Erso and the others the courage to stand up to the council and go to Scarif, even in the face of such insurmountable odds. 

The two of them made their way aboard, and Jan settled herself into the pilot’s station before turning to Kyle. 

"You ready?" 

Kyle smiled. "Always."

Jan typed the launch sequence into the command console, and her thoughts filled with uncertainty as she thought about the mission ahead.  She thought back to her conversation with General Draven in the hangar. The assurances of trust, of confidence in her own judgment, were swiftly being pulled into the amorphous eddies of his memory, but Draven’s orders were etched in steel: “ _ Forget everything you heard in that briefing room, Captain. If your operation is compromised in any way, there will be no extraction. At the first sign of treachery, you know what to do." _

On the one hand, Draven wasn’t necessarily wrong to suspect Kyle’s loyalties. To an outsider, Katarn would be the ideal candidate for suspicion: a former Imperial Stormtrooper surely responsible for the deaths of countless Alliance sympathizers, civilian and military alike. Kyle’s years inside the Imperial war machine could have no innocent outcome. If killing him saved a single life, then that was cause to celebrate—but if not, his assassination was no less justified. Nor did the contradiction between Mon Mothma’s orders and those of General Draven trouble Jan in the slightest. The notion of bringing Jyn Erso and Cassian Andor back from the dead—of attempting to locate survivors of the most powerful weapon in the Empire’s possession, was, at the very least, a desperate gamble and at most a completely suicidal venture. The Imperial military was ruthless, and its commanders believed that they had exterminated all life on Scarif. They were right. No survivors could have escaped the wrath of the Death Star, regardless of any hope the Alliance might care to hold.

Yet Senator Mothma was an idealist. Jan suspected she wanted to attempt a rescue mission to Scarif not because she thought it would bring anyone home, but because she felt obligated to try. Jan admired the Alliance leader. Kyle Katarn’s return from this mission—or perhaps, his failure to return — would free her from the guilt of the losses Rogue One had sustained over Scarif and confirm their deaths.

And yet Jan was still troubled nonetheless. The determination to succeed in Kyle’s eyes frightened her, more than she cared to admit to herself. She wasn’t sure what troubled her more: what she had been ordered to do to Kyle Katarn, or what he would do to her if he ever learned of Draven’s conspiracy against him.

After a few moments, Jan drew the conclusion that she would bring it up to Kyle if and only if it became relevant. He had a lot on his mind, and she didn’t want to be responsible for even more anxiety on his behalf. Besides, her gut feeling told her that the scenario Draven had proposed would never come up.

The hatch sealed itself, Jan brought the  _ Crow’s _ drive up, and the stars beckoned.


	11. Chapter Eight

**Chapter Eight**

**_Moldy Crow_ ** **, en route to Scarif**

The run to the Abrion system took the better part of two days. The navcomp handled most of the piloting; Jan busied herself with familiarizing her engineering team with the nature of the Alliance’s modifications to the freighter. When not asleep, or deeply involved in a maintenance procedure of his own, Kyle rode an emotional roller coaster, but tried to marshal his mental forces. There was a high as the mission began but that period was all too brief. The more he thought about the mission, the more problems he discovered, until they were like mynocks that sucked the courage from his bones.

The obvious solution was to devise a plan that dealt with the potential problems, and thereby defeat them, in his mind if nowhere else. He spent a lot of time constructing clever scenarios, his hopes rising as they took shape, only to encounter a barrier so large, so insurmountable, that everything collapsed. Finally, after many hours of frustrating work, he was forced to confront the fact that he lacked sufficient information. The answers, assuming there were any, waited in Abrion with Jan’s contact.

Air whispered through the  _ Moldy Crow's _ vents, the deck vibrated, and Kyle found himself alone.

Accommodations aboard his ship were spacious compared to the shuttle which had brought him to Yavin, he thought to himself as he lounged in the pilot's chair. The sleek, rectangular control consoles were aligned neatly: a pilot's station in front of the bow viewscreen and a copilot's console to the right. The emptiness of the console was strange to him, as was the silence throughout the entire ship.

Kyle shook the thought out of his head. This wasn't the time for such thoughts, not with such an important mission lingering over his head. Jan was counting on him to make this rendezvous, and he had little intention of letting her down… again.

He rose from his seat and walked back to his cabin. It would be several hours until the ship reached its next waypoint and at least a day before they reached the Abrion system. The perfect time to think... and feel.

Kyle had brought a bottle of whisky aboard the  _ Crow _ , as he had done on every mission since Danuta. The liquor brought him comfort. He considered pouring himself a glass, but there was no comfort in the thought. His thoughts were too burdened to consider the spirits a comfort, and he placed the bottle above him in the overhead compartment without a second thought. There would be time to enjoy a drink, he told himself, but it was not now. Perhaps, when this mission finally ended, he and Jan could settle their weary nerves and enjoy the smoky taste of the Corellian liquor.

Assuming this mission ended successfully, he reminded himself, and the pleasurable anticipation of the moment faded away, once more obscured by the fog of war. He bit at the corner of his lip until his eyes watered, remembering how convinced he had been that this mission would return him to good standing within the Alliance—and provide him the answers he sought about the raid on Sulon that had reportedly killed his father. Now even that tentative confidence had become little more than a distant and untouchable possibility, and he felt the weight of despair begin to sweep over him.

He stopped his pacing and stood rigid, his posture stock-straight in the Imperial position of attention. It was a force of habit for Kyle to snap into military formality in times of distress; that was the response the Empire had drilled and conditioned into him, the response that they had used to teach him to always approach a situation with an overlay of fear. Yet even his Imperial conditioning could not hold back the overwhelming wave of doubt that gnawed at the edges of his consciousness.

Kyle sucked in a tremendous breath, reached for the wooden grip of the Bryar pistol holstered to his right thigh, and set the weapon on his lap in front of him. The explanation was simple enough, he told himself. Draven and the rest of High Command were no fools. They were sweeping the  _ Crow _ —and Kyle—under the rug, driving him out of the system because they were embarrassed by his failure during the Danuta raid. There was nothing he could do to change those circumstances, except to take his punishment, however undeserved, and do the very best he could with the orders he and Jan had been given. And, Kyle told himself firmly, the fact that the world of Scarif had been ravaged by the Death Star didn't necessarily mean it wasn't important. There were still military assets on the side of the world untouched by the superlaser, and Kyle wasn’t entirely convinced the Empire would give up the data contained in the archives, either.

Then, of course, there was the matter of the survivors. The survivors the Abrion rebels had claimed to have detected on the surface. The survivors he and Jan were being sent to locate and extract. 

He closed his eyes, reflecting on the words Mon Mothma had said to him before Danuta. “ _ You have a choice, Agent _ ,” the Senator had said.  _ “A chance to be better, to make a fresh start for yourself.” _

Well, here he was, he muttered despairingly. Traitor to the Empire, outcast to the Alliance, sitting aboard the  _ Moldy Crow _ en route to the heart of Imperial territory, with no plan, no reinforcements, and no allies save for Jan and her supposed contact in-system, assuming he could be trusted. And, given Jan’s usual choice of contacts, the thought of what he might encounter in the Abrion system felt no more comforting or reassuring than the memories of Danuta had been.

“Kyle? Are you in there?” a voice asked.

“Come in?”

Jan ducked inside the hatch and stood in front of him with an expressionless gaze. her amber eyes blank as they stared out the viewport. Behind her, a million stars streaked past the freighter’s hull. She gave him a knowing glance, and he nodded to her. They had made their choice.

"You sure you're alright?" she asked.

“I’m fine,” Kyle lied. “I’m just wondering how I let you talk me into this mess.”

Jan shook her head. “What can I say? I needed the best man for the job, and your… familiarity with the inner workings of Imperial security facilities, among other things, seemed like it might prove useful. Besides, we’ve been through worse operations than this.”

Kyle nodded, considering the whole of the situation. This wasn’t the worst mission he’d undertaken on behalf of the Rebellion: the risk was considerably lower and the pay significantly higher. However, the mission was also time-sensitive, where even a single moment’s delay could end the mission in disaster. This last thought sent a chill down Kyle’s spine, and he straightened, trying to refocus his attention.

He looked over at her, his expression neutral, as he attempted to mask his fear behind a façade of security. “Well, you certainly came to the right man for the job.”

Jan wasn’t at all fooled by Kyle’s attempted show of confidence. She shook her head, a familiar smile crossing her face. It was the same look she had given him before the mission to Danuta, and he felt the back of his throat fall away into his stomach.

“That’s your way of telling me that you don’t expect there to be anyone left to extract?” she inquired after a moment. Her amber eyes flickered in the dim light of the cargo bay, and she paused to observe Kyle’s expression curiously.

Kyle shook his head. ‘I have to admit, I have my doubts, Jan. We’ve been ordered to infiltrate a former Imperial archive, and the only lead we have is a half-unintelligible transmission intercepted by a Longprobe flight. For all we know this could be a trap. I’m going to be frank with you. I don’t trust this operation, and I don’t trust the Alliance Council. Why would they send us to infiltrate the ruins of an Imperial installation based on nothing but hope?”

“Rebellions are built on hope,” Jan replied.

“Don’t tell me you believe all that nonsense,” Kyle scoffed under his breath. “That’s just Alliance propaganda.” He stared at the holo-disk containing the orders Draven and Mon Mothma had given him, and a familiar chill ran down the base of his spine.

“Well, in any case, I appreciate you coming back on such short notice. We need you for this job, Kyle, even if you don’t believe it yourself.”

Kyle shook his head, giving his pilot a slight glare. “Let’s get one thing clear, Jan. I did this job as a favor to an old friend. I’m not doing it for the Alliance. I haven’t forgiven them for how they treated me after Danuta. This is a one-time deal, Jan. After this job I’m out.”

“And here I always considered you a rebel, Kyle,” Jan laughed.

Kyle sighed. “Then you’re gravely mistaken. I’m not a rebel, Jan. I’ve never been a rebel. I’m just a man with a blaster and a hatred of the Empire. There’s a big difference.”

Jan shook her head, glancing over at Kyle with a dark expression on her face. “A lot can change in three years, can’t it? The Kyle I knew was a rebel, and a proud one at that.”

“Yeah,” Kyle murmured; secretly praying Jan didn’t hear him. “A lot can change indeed.”

His pilot leaned over, placing one hand carefully on his shoulder. “You’ve been awfully quiet ever since we left Yavin. Surely something’s been on your mind? It’s not like you to just… shut me out right before a mission.” 

"Danuta," Kyle muttered, gesturing out the viewport towards the glowing stars. "I was thinking about Danuta. About how we kriffed it all up for nothing." 

She settled down beside him, reaching over his head to search the compartment above. "There was nothing you could have done, Kyle. The mission was compromised the moment we entered orbit. Even if everything went perfectly, we wouldn't have gotten the plans." 

"So, you mean to tell me that the Alliance set us up to fail? Like they have now?" The agent lowered his head, burying his face in his hands. "I knew High Command didn't trust us, Jan. What you just said only confirmed it."

"That's not what I said," Jan told him, shaking her head. "I said there was nothing you could do, not that the Alliance set you up. You're jumping to conclusions. But  part of this is my fault, Kyle. I wish I could have done more for you after your disagreement with the Council. For that, I’m sorry.” 

Kyle shrugged. “There was nothing more you could have done. High Command and I never did see eye to eye; I suppose being an ex-Stormtrooper always did have its disadvantages. Danuta was the result of months of disagreements between us. The way I see it, confrontation was inevitable, and I did disobey my standing orders. I hate to admit it, but General Draven was right about that.”

“Both of you had your own goals,” Jan offered. “You were doing what you thought was the right thing. You had your priorities, High Command had theirs, and the two didn’t exactly have anything in common. Either way, I doubt you were  _ entirely _ to blame for what occurred. The Imperials compromised you before you had a chance.” 

"I guess so," Kyle replied, settling himself back down again. "I just can't help but think that Draven isn't as pleased to have me back as he initially let on." 

"Draven is, and always will be, a hard-ass," Jan scoffed. "He's an old soldier, and for him duty matters above everything." 

"And that's supposed to reassure me?"

"Look, I'm an intelligence agent, not a counselor," Jan laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. "You can probably guess I'm not the best at this sort of thing." 

"You're doing fine, Agent," Kyle chuckled, his expression lightening somewhat. 

Jan turned to leave, but Kyle caught her gently by the wrist on the way out. She looked at him for a moment, slightly concerned. 

“There’s still one thing I don’t quite understand about all this, Jan.” 

“What’s that, Kyle?”

He opened the scan-doc containing his orders, and gestured to the image of Jyn Erso and her unit.

“ What’s so important about this ‘Rogue One’ squad in the first place? From what I’ve heard of them, they were a bunch of misfits, dregs, and criminals. Not exactly the sort you’d expect to become the Alliance’s greatest heroes.” 

“Neither were we, Kyle,” Jan pointed out. “You were an ex-Imperial, and I was the daughter of known Alderaanian terrorists. I don’t think the Alliance could ever have considered us their best and brightest. We have more in common with Rogue One than you know.” 

He shrugged. “You have a point there. So that’s why you asked me to join you on this venture? Because you feel a bond of camaraderie with a team you never met?”

“That, and because without them the Death Star would still be an active threat. Thanks to Andor and Erso, the Alliance has a fighting chance of cracking that thing.” 

“And thanks to us,” Kyle laughed. “Don’t forget, we managed to do it first. I just wish we were the ones who led the attack on Scarif. Then we wouldn’t all be in this mess.”

“Yeah, I suppose you’re right about that.” 

"Also, thanks for the reassurance."

"I'm your friend and your pilot for a reason," Jan laughed. "What would you do without me?"

Kyle considered his friend’s inquiry for a moment. "I'd be a content old man."

"Somehow," Jan laughed, "I don't see content, or an old man.” 

“Then what do you see, Jan?” he asked her.

“What I see,” Jan remarked, more to herself than to Kyle, “is a man who’s in drastic need of a kriffing drink.” Her fingers closed around the flask of whiskey Kyle had stowed away. She extracted it with precision, pouring the liquor into a pair of shot glasses she had also removed from the compartment. 

“I was saving that,” Kyle started to object, but the glare in his companion’s eyes persuaded him to drop the argument. Smiling wryly, he lifted his glass and downed the drink with a single swallow.

“Damn, that’s good,” he muttered. “Thanks.”

Jan smiled, looking Kyle in the eyes. “Just like old times,” she laughed. “Another routine operation.” 

They were not safe. They never really were. But they had a chance to be better now. For the first time they had the ability to choose their next steps. And Kyle already knew his. He composed himself and stood, his back ramrod straight from years of habit and Imperial conditioning, but his posture gradually loosened as Jan poured him another drink. 

It was time to focus on the next mission, he decided, not on ghosts of the past. 


	12. Supplemental Data #3

**SUPPLEMENTAL DATA 3:**

**_[Document #YT7304 (“Official Statement on the Strategic Necessity of the Scarif Archives”) sent from Director Orson Kallan Krennic to General Rom Mohc, approximately two months after the breach of the Danuta Complex.]_ **

_General Mohc:_

_I take no joy in sending these reminders, but as you are new to the Bureau, and unfamiliar with our protocols, I will gladly do so. It is of the highest priority that backup copies of all major ISB development projects, including yours, are transferred to a single data reserve as soon as feasibly possible._

_To that end, the Bureau has ordered the construction of a forward operations complex on Scarif, wherein we will store all critical information involving Project Stardust and its associated development projects. Although currently awaiting approval, I have also requested that the schematics of a number of other advanced weapons development operations, including Project Arc Hammer, be transferred to the Scarif base.  
  
_ _I have sent you a number of communiques on the subject of this file transfer, and, though I know you value the unique nature of your work, I must turn away from pleasantry and towards a simpler, more direct course of action._

_In short, Rom, you are hereby requested and required to surrender all engineering data and schematics relating to Project Arc Hammer to me for immediate review and placement in the Scarif vaults, effective immediately._

_We can no longer afford to shroud our operations in complete secrecy, General. The development of your project, as well as that of Project Stardust and countless other operations conducted by the Bureau of Advanced Weapons Research, are, admittedly, of the utmost importance to the security of our New Order. However, as much as we might wish to retain complete control of our own projects, as in the era of the late Republic, the feasibility of such an action is neither logistically sound nor politically advisable._  
  
We live in a new era, General Mohc. The Empire is neither as secure nor as invulnerable as its Moffs and leaders would like to believe, and if its enemies manage to capture our information, they could undo both our own operations and the fate of the Empire itself. This reserve vault, therefore, is designed to protect all Bureau assets currently in development, as well as ensure redundancy and internal consistency within projects. 

_There is also the matter of our own Operational Security to consider. A portion of the plans for Project Stardust and its associated developments are already being transferred from the forward base on Danuta to Scarif following a recent incursion, and the rest of the associated files will be transferred to the vault in due time. Such an incursion cannot be allowed to happen again, especially if it involves such an important project such as Stardust._

_You have earned my admiration, Rom. Your work in advanced robotics and cybernetics is most impressive, and I have full confidence in the success of your operations. Consider my requisitioning of your work as a favor to a trusted friend._

_Glory to the Empire._


	13. Chapter Nine

**ISD-I** **_Avenger_ ** **_  
_ ** **Orbiting Scarif** **  
** **  
** Captain Marianne Sato, the commanding officer of the Imperial Star Destroyer  _ Avenger _ , knew better than most what it meant to be considered an outsider. Despite being captain of one of the Imperial Navy’s most decorated Star Destroyers, she held neither the rank nor the authority of many of her peers. She didn’t come from a family with political connections on Coruscant, she wasn’t the first in her Academy class, she wasn’t a veteran of the Clone Wars with military experience – she was just an average Imperial Navy captain with an average record who just happened to be a decent commander. She could follow orders, and held a slight edge in the understanding of basic tactics which allowed her to further distinguish herself from her fellow officers who, although smarter and more experienced, lacked little more than a theoretical grasp over Imperial tactical doctrine.

In short, while her fellow captains appeared to understand little more than tactical theory, Marianne devoted her time to the understanding of tactical  _ application _ . She learned from her mistakes, and more importantly she knew how to approach a problem with methods that deviated from those taught at the Academy. This mattered when fighting rebels, as it was highly unlikely that an Alliance officer would ever attack the Empire using conventional strategies or assets.

In the Empire, experience outranked everything.

She knew that reputations and relationships were necessities for a successful captain, traits which needed to become as natural for an officer as gunnery or tactical doctrine. By her second year in command of an Imperial warship she had earned her reputation as a no-nonsense officer after her vessel single-handedly broke a desperate Rebel blockade in the impoverished Anoat system. That had earned her an approving nod from her executive officer and an almost-smile from Grand Admiral Thrawn (who had been aboard  _ Avenger _ as a military advisor), which Marianne had seen as a sort of promotion in and of itself. Her success in Anoat helped her catch the eye of her superiors, which may have been part of the reason for her rapid ascendancy through the ranks in spite of her relative lack of experience.

In the Empire,  _ who _ you knew mattered just as much as  _ what _ you knew.

Marianne Sato was also quite aware that intelligence was one of the most valuable military assets. From her place in the background of any situation and acting in her role as enforcer of Imperial law, she could see everything. She knew that the ISD  _ Retributor _ had been laid up in dry-dock as the result of a reactor breach, the direct result of an infiltration by Rebel agents. She knew that the Rebellion’s strength in the Sullust system had been drastically weakened by prolonged engagements with the Imperial Fleet, though she also knew that Imperial presence in the system was also woefully under-strength. She knew that the incursion on Scarif was little more than a momentary oversight, but she also knew that Grand Moff Tarkin had fired the Death Star onto the vault complex in a last-ditch attempt to protect the station's operational security. 

In the Empire, knowledge was power.

Years of experience had taught her that having the trust of the local government officials would get you far in life. She knew that she cared little for political affairs outside her direct sphere of influence. She knew that she had to work harder than most of her friends when the  _ Avenger _ was visited by planetary Governors, Senators or other Imperial dignitaries. Though she ordered her Stormtroopers to polish their armor until it gleamed and found time to press her dress uniform whenever a visiting Moff or politician was due aboard her vessel, she never preferred diplomatic missions. She was a soldier, not a stateswoman. She obeyed her orders, and she did as she was told, but she never attempted to please government officials, particularly civilian officials, more than was absolutely necessary. Politics were the Senate’s affairs, better suited for smooth-talking diplomats and high-strung ambassadors. She just wasn’t cut out for it.

However, Marianne also understood that military power was a perfectly acceptable substitute for legal authority. Her success aboard the  _ Avenger _ gave her a taste of the kind of power she could wield, the power that relied on fear, intimidation, and indomitable will instead of the mutterings of bureaucrats or the hand-waving of Moffs. As sole Mistress and Commander of an entire Star Destroyer, people took her seriously, listened to her orders when she issued them. She had learned so many valuable lessons as a commander, and watching many a politician get dragged away to their deaths on charges of incompetence or dereliction of duty had taught her the most valuable lessons yet – it was better for a military commander to rely on her own initiative and the competency of her crew than to trust the authority of politicians who claimed to know everything. Most high-ranking Imperial officials, she had learned, were only out for their own power or wealth, and as such were perfectly willing to leave the Navy to rot away in dry-dock if they found them inconvenient.

In the Empire, trust was a dangerous ally.

Now, as she gazed upon the remains of the devastated Rebel fleet, Marianne contemplated the nature of her duty, and the costs associated with the Empire's most recent operation. Her turquoise eyes were somber, and her tall and slender frame stood ominously before the viewport. Yet even as the rest of the bridge crew cheered as a routed Rebel fighter spiraled away into a fiery blossom of destruction, she stood silently, apparently unmoved by the spectacle of battle.

Finally, she told herself, the fighting was over. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that the battle had ended in strategic triumph for the Empire. The Rebels had been driven from the system. The plans for the Death Star had been secured. After-action reports revealed that the enemy had lost most of their fleet and reports from Lord Vader’s  _ Devastator  _ asserted that the battle station’s plans would soon be back in Imperial hands. By all accounts, the battle over Scarif should have been cause for celebration.

But in spite of all these small triumphs, Marianne Sato also knew that every battle had a cost. There was always a price to pay for victory, and Scarif was no different. But these losses had not been incurred by the Rebellion. Instead, it had been Grand Moff Tarkin, in his folly, who had unleashed his new battle station upon the Scarif outpost, reducing it to ruin and killing all in the vicinity. The complement of two Star Destroyers, the shield gate personnel, all of them had been destroyed, and not even the defeat of the Rebellion’s incursion could ease the weight of their deaths upon Marianne’s conscience. She stood there, her eyes cold and expressionless as she reflected on the destruction.

_ ‘Why did it come to this? Why did Tarkin deem it necessary to sacrifice so many?’ _ Even as the inquiry rang through her mind, Marianne Sato already knew the answer, even as she dreaded it.

In the eyes of the Empire's leaders, victory over the enemy was always the first priority. And, Marianne reminded herself, it had been one of those leaders, a politician, not a soldier, who deemed the destruction of Scarif's complex the first step on the path to victory. In the eyes of Marianne Sato, Grand Moff Wilhuff Tarkin was not a soldier. True, he had commanded armies during the Clone Wars, but wealth and power and connections had overshadowed his experiences on the battlefield. At one time, she might have seen a soldier in him, but that was hardly the case now. Instead, Marianne saw nothing more than yet another corrupt planetary governor, a man who, like many of the other politicians she had met during her long career, placed his own advancement and success above the lives of those beneath him.

And because of his hubris, her friends had died. Friends she had respected, friends she had fought beside, friends she had known since her enlistment. Tarkin had killed them, and he had killed them without honor or dignity. He had summarily ordered their execution along with the Rebels, purged innocent and guilty alike in a single moment. 

Bitterness at the losses the Death Star had incurred upon Scarif left a foul taste in Marianne’s mouth, but as the  _ Avenger _ slipped through the debris field towards what remained of the ruined shield gate, she realized, however bleakly, that not all had been lost. Debris from countless rebel ships surrounded her Star Destroyer, showing just how decisive the engagement had been. Pilots of Alliance starfighters and derelict escape pods were being brought aboard the  _ Avenger _ for interrogation and capture, and the last of the fleeing traitors would soon be apprehended by Lord Vader and the  _ Devastator _ .

In the Empire, she reassured herself, defeat was never truly the end. If anything, it was simply a new beginning.

A competent Imperial officer was adaptable, and Marianne Sato was no different. She prided herself in her ability to turn victory into defeat. More than other commanders, however, she did not allow her personal feelings to interfere with her duty or the mission at hand. Tarkin's deed was already done. The Death Star’s wrath had been unleashed upon Scarif, and nothing she could do here could undo the destruction or save the lives of those he had needlessly cast aside. Nothing she could do could bring her friends back from the grave, but perhaps she could ensure that their losses were not in vain. Though she felt helpless now, perhaps there was a chance that something significant could be salvaged from this debacle after all. Scarif still remained. Tarkin hadn't destroyed the planet, he had merely damaged it. If she acted quickly, she had the opportunity to pick up the pieces that the careless Moff had left behind him. Perhaps she could recover some of the data vault’s irreplaceable information, redistribute it to other secret locations across the galaxy for recovery and restoration. And perhaps, if the Emperor willed it, her men might locate some survivors on the surface, men and women who had somehow sheltered themselves from the Death Star’s fury.

With rising hope, Marianne Sato turned towards the bridge holo-projector. She had a message to send.

***   
**Scarif Surface** **  
** **  
** Captain Malora Dessyk raised her head from the injured, half-conscious woman in front of her with a cold frown as something chimed behind her, and the injured Stormtrooper who'd handed her the encrypted transmission swallowed unobtrusively. The Special Forces officer was a vigilant, highly-trained killer, with a record of dead bodies to prove it, and she disliked interruptions, but the trooper stood his ground. It wasn't as if he had a choice. Besides, she'd been preoccupied, re-gathering her senses about her and attending to Sharyn’s wounds, and most of that scowl probably stemmed more from her hatred for the Rebels who had suddenly injured her first officer than the stormtrooper’s sudden appearance. 

"What is it, Tuc?" she demanded in an ice cold, emotionless soprano. There was no deliberate emotion placed behind her words, but the trooper could detect the slightest hint of bitterness and irritation beneath the captain’s evident façade of discipline and control.

"Incoming transmission, Ma’am," Lieutenant Commander Tuc Valaris replied. Malora’s scowl deepened, and he hastened to add, "It's from the  _ Avenger _ ." 

Malora’s face smoothed quickly into her usual mask-like calm, and she rose with a curt nod, pausing to wipe a slick of mud from the chest of her uniform. Valaris stepped away from her, and she brushed past her with an oddly courteous apology.

“I’ll take this privately,” she said curtly. “Please attend to Lieutenant Atlera in my absence.”

Valaris watched her move away from the wounded, moving back up the muddy slope with her customary cat-footed grace, and felt the familiar shiver she left in her wake. There was something oddly out of place about Malora Dessyk, part and parcel of her distinct accent and the distinct level of curt formality she showed to those under her command. He had served under more than his share of dangerous officers, but none quite like his commanding officer, and her icy, grim resolve frightened him. He hated to admit that, even to himself, yet it was true. 

The captain continued to withdraw, as expressionless and distant as ever, and Valaris turned away with another shiver, adjusting his helmet as he picked up his rifle and moved off towards the medical tent.

If he was fortunate enough to reach the medic in time, Lieutenant Atlera would still be alive by the time she returned.

* * *

Malora took one look at the face on the hologram, then nodded curtly to the sentry. The Stormtrooper departed without a word, and she inserted the message the stormtrooper had given her into the holo-transmitter and entered the code clearance. Long habit drew her eyes to the panel, double-checking the circuits, before she looked up at the flickering transparent image of the woman before her, dressed in a naval captain’s uniform.

"What is it?" she asked without preamble. 

"We may have a problem, Agent Dessyk," the woman’s hologram said carefully. Her Coruscanti accent was pronounced—possibly too pronounced, Malora thought yet again. It had a sort of cryptic quality to it, as if it were possibly a mask for something else, but that was well enough with her. The officer she was speaking to clearly valued Malora’s services; if she wanted to maintain an extra level of security by encrypting her transmission, then that was her business. 

"What seems to be the problem, Captain Sato?”

"Some of our TIE fighters intercepted a flight of Rebel starfighters attempting to deliver a transmission away from the surface of Scarif," the officer replied harshly, and Malora’s mouth tightened. “Although most of the insurgents were intercepted and destroyed, one of the rebels managed to escape, taking the transmission they intercepted away with them.”

"What sort of transmission? Why would the Rebels be returning to Scarif?" 

"We're not certain—our flight leader couldn't tell us—but I'd guess they were searching for survivors of the recent raid on the Archives. We know the Rebels are outnumbered and value their manpower, and they've been extending their patrols throughout the system."

Malora’s eyes flashed at the mention of the Rebels and she felt her tight mouth begin to twist into a half-snarl. She'd never met any of the raiders who had stolen the Death Star plans, but she didn't have to meet them to hate them. They represented too many things out of her own past, and she felt the familiar heat of bitter anger course through her nerves. Yet in spite of this, Malora Dessyk was a soldier of the Empire.

Experience had taught her to recognize the danger of impulsive reactions, however soothing they might be in the moment.

"Do you suspect the transmission came from rebel survivors?" she asked cautiously.

"Again, we're not certain,” Sato explained, “but my crew have been running analyses of the flight path of those rebel starfighters. The odds that the insurgents were patrolling the ruins of our Archives complex at the time the transmission was received are quite high. In fact, I can virtually guarantee that was their goal.”

“How so, Captain?”

Sato nodded. “Two days ago, one of our moles located deep behind the lines of a local insurgency movement learned that a cell of the Rebellion was diverting one of their frigates, the  _ Atellion,  _ towards Scarif. From what the mole gathered, the frigate was filled with starfighters, which were to be deployed at various intervals along a predetermined flight path.” 

"To run orbital sweeps of Scarif," Malora said flatly. "Probably."

Captain Sato shook her head. "Not probably—certainly. I told you during the pre-mission briefing that it was likely the Rebellion would come back to locate survivors." 

Malora gave the naval captain an irritated look. "The Rebels are soft. They value their personnel too highly. The Death Star dealt with the Rebel incursion." 

"Damn the Death Star."  Sato spoke almost mildly, but her eyes were hard. "There is a possibility, however small, that at least some Rebels managed to remain alive on the surface. If there is hope for survivors, even in the form of the faintest of comm signals, I can assure you that the Rebels would take the opportunity to investigate the source of that signal."

"So what?" Malora said cynically. “The Rebels wouldn’t dare launch another raid on Scarif, not after Lord Vader broke the back of their fleet. I’ve little reason to believe they would risk the lives of front-line personnel to investigate a faint comm signal.”

"Maybe. But I'll lay odds that the signal, whatever it was, was what attracted the Rebels’ attention. And if I know the Rebels, they’ll carry that signal to its most extreme conclusion and assume that there are indeed survivors on Scarif. Which means they’ll be making preparations for a recovery operation, which, in turn, will compromise the security of the Archives data we are attempting to salvage." 

She opened her mouth, as though she was about to say something else, but she closed it after a moment. 

"Very well Captain,” Malora said. “I understand your concern, and you are in command. What do you want me to do at this end?" 

"In twenty-four hours,  _ Avenger  _ will begin landing the first element of the recovery team. Until then, I need you to watch your security, and report back to me if you make contact with any survivors on the ground. If the Rebels are making overflights, we can't afford   
to attract their attention, lest they compromise our own recovery efforts."   
  
Malora’s face fell. "I must report that we came under attack just a few short hours ago, Captain. There was no time to relay a message to the  _ Avenger _ ."

She chose not to add that her emergency com had been off when her patrol first made contact with the Rebel survivors, nor did she mention that the other members of her squad had been badly injured by her assailants. While such details weren’t technically required to be disclosed under regulations unless explicitly pressed, she didn’t wish to appear incompetent in front of her superior, especially in such a compromising situation as this.

"We know, Captain. Commander Tarakan informed us of as much in his report," Sato’s hologram said. "We had no reason to suspect the survivors to be equipped well enough for combat"—Malora knew that was as close to an apology from Sato as she was likely to get—"but now that we do, we don't expect you or your squad to work miracles, at least until your reinforcements arrive. On the other hand, I doubt you'll have to.”

“What do you mean, Captain?” Malora asked.

Sato nodded. “I am moving  _ Avenger _ and our other ground teams to high alert. Not to total combat readiness, mind you,

but high enough to let us know if the Rebellion starts assembling anything big enough to pose a significant threat. We'll try to land enough reinforcements to repel any sort of substantial assault if the Rebels decide to surprise us, but even if we can't,  _ Avenger’s _ sensors should be able to give you a minimum of six- or seven-hours’ warning before anything heads your way." 

Malora nodded slowly, mind racing as she considered alternatives. Six hours would be more than enough to get her squad into a state of combat readiness, but anything less than a full day would be too little to get even a tithe of their equipment out of their forward operating base.

She shrugged internally. The transportation of the equipment was ultimately the Navy’s concern, and there was no reason to worry herself with something so beyond the realm of her control. Nevertheless, she turned to Sato’s hologram after a moment of consideration,

"How do we handle the equipment we brought to the surface?" she asked after a moment. 

"If there's time, take it with you. If there's not—" Sato shrugged. "It's only hardware. We can replace it."

"Understood." Malora drummed on the edge of the console for a moment, then shrugged, physically this time. "Anything else?" 

"Not presently. I'll send down another transmission if the situation warrants it."

"Very well, Captain," Malora responded, and killed the circuit.

She turned back to the sentry, placed her helmet on her head, and her dark, hard eyes challenged the Stormtrooper to react. It was a challenge the trooper declined, content to maintain his isolation as he escorted her silently back toward the lift.

Malora was grateful for the man’s silence, for her brain was trying to grapple with a myriad of simultaneous thoughts. Memories of the campaign on Fest dominated them, especially of the terrible scene aboard the ISD Conqueror where Captain Malora Dessyk, Imperial Stormtrooper Corps, stood before a court-martial on charges of dereliction of duty, conduct unbecoming of an officer, and cowardice in the face of the enemy.

The incident had not entirely been her fault, for the bastard Rebels had ambushed her without any warning. They had fought without honor, firing at her men from behind hedges and ruined buildings before her forces could even formulate a proper response. Malora’s impulsive response to the attack hadn’t helped the situation Screaming in anger, she had ordered her men to reform ranks and return fire, but by the time she had imposed decent order on her Company, the Rebel scum had vanished, leaving her stricken patrol completely at their mercy. Only the intervention of another company of Stormtroopers had spared her life, but the damage had been done.

She should have told the Inquiry that, she thought miserably, but she was only a low-ranking officer, recently promoted, with few connections within the Corps. And not a very decorated officer, either. Who among the higher echelons of command would have believed her claims that her force had been ambushed, caught completely off guard in spite of the presence of walkers and heavy weapons? Besides, where was her proof? Her patrol had been alone—Rebel comm interference had seen to that—and she'd been so shaken she'd fled the field instead of standing her ground with the rest of her unit. By the time anyone else knew a thing about it, the Rebels were long gone, and her reinforcements had found her surrounded by the bodies of her comrades, too dazed and confused to give a clear explanation.

And so, she'd pleaded guilty and accepted the charges. Perhaps if she hadn't been so surprised, so taken aback by the Rebels’ sudden show of force, she might have been able to defend herself and her squad more effectively. But it wasn't a problem she'd ever had before. She'd never experienced combat in such an unforgiving environment, and her men had suffered for her inexperience. But her outburst in front of the inquiry board, in which she berated them personally, had done little to help her case.

Malora had to admit that there'd been a certain savage joy in speaking her mind in front of the court-martial board for the unfairness of their judgment. But in doing so, she clearly overstepped her bounds, and no one ever doubted that Malora’s own reckless impulsiveness had played into her initial reaction to the Rebel assault. Moff Telos might not have had any proof of how the events of the ambush had actually occurred on Fest, but he would never have suggested the possibility of a penal company under the circumstances if he hadn't had a pretty shrewd notion of what had actually happened.

Yet she hadn't realized that then, and she'd told herself she'd already dealt with the matter, anyway. That she didn't want to precipitate a scandal that could only hurt the Stormtrooper Corps. That it was a case of least said, soonest mended, since no one would have believed her anyway. Bad enough to be involved in something so humiliating and degrading without exposing herself to that, as well! She'd almost been able to hear the rumors in the barracks surrounding “Dessyk’s Folly” and, after all, hadn't she let herself get a little carried away? There'd been no need to berate the inquiry board for refusing to believe her account of the battle. That fit of temper had gone beyond simple self-defense into the realm of petty defiance, and, in that regard, she  _ had _ committed the charge of unbecoming behavior.

So, she'd agreed to join the penal company in order to save her life, and in so doing she'd bought herself the worst of both worlds. The crimes she had committed were usually considered crash-and-burn offenses by the Stormtrooper Corps; if she had been convicted, she would never have worn an officer's uniform again, regardless of Moff Telos’s intervention. But Telos’s words on her behalf had been enough and she hadn't been convicted. She had remained a Stormtrooper and escaped execution, but in doing so she had made enemies for life, for the officers who had formed her court-martial board would never forget that she'd been right about the ambush all along. Nor would they forgive her for her embarrassing show of defiance during the inquiry, and most of them had powerful friends, both in and out of the service.

Malora had felt the influence of rich, high-ranking officers more than once in her career, and their malicious delight in dropping full responsibility for the entire Scarif archives on the shoulders of herself and Commander Tarakan—leaving a single, undermanned penal squad to do a job which should have been the task of an entire battle company—burned on her tongue like poison. It was petty and vicious . . . and entirely in keeping with the bastards’ personality.

She began to walk back down the hill, her face buried in her hands, and her mind reached out to grapple with her surviving comrades’ reaction to Captain Sato’s latest development. No doubt they would see the ambush as one more sign that they'd been demoted to the least important duty the Empire could find and abandoned to their fate, and they would soon realize just how heavy a burden had been placed upon them. Tarakan’s squad, and by extension, Malora, had been assigned to scout ahead of the  _ Avenger’s  _ primary landing force, and there was no way they could do it. They couldn't be in enough places at once, and trying to would impose a mind- and body-numbing strain on all of them. The Rebel attack didn’t make the job any easier, and she swallowed heavily.

Which was exactly what the court-martial board had intended. They had assigned her an impossible job, content in the knowledge that her failure to discharge it would further tarnish her already disgraced record. Unlike more senior officers, Malora had no political connections or means of shielding her career from the eyes of the powers-that-be, and if she botched this assignment, however it had fallen on her, there would be no second chance at redemption. She would be discharged from the service, cast aside and forgotten, or worse, executed for her incompetence.

But she hadn't botched it yet, and she nodded to herself—a choppy, angry nod. Even knowing that the members of the Inquiry board had set her up to fail and ruin herself, was better than a lonely exile on a prison world or death at the muzzles of a firing squad. Let the Moffs send her to her death on Scarif. The sooner she got out of the same star system as those stuck up bastards, the better she'd like it! Of one thing Malora was completely certain; she couldn't do any worse here on Scarif than she had on Fest.

She'd made a mistake once where her comrades were concerned. She wouldn't let the Rebels push her into another. Whatever it took, she would complete her objectives and meet her responsibilities as ordered. Not just to protect her career from further disgrace, but because they were  _ her _ duties and responsibilities. Because she would not allow another disgraceful failure like the one on Fest to happen on her watch, or lose more friends and comrades to her own follies like she had lost the men and women of the 461 st .

Straightening her uniform, Malora Dessyk walked briskly back down the hill towards Sharyn and the others. She had a friend to attend to… and Rebels to track down.


	14. Chapter Ten

**Chapter Ten**

It was a long walk back to the encampment, and, as expected, Major Valaris was waiting for her when she arrived. The major's eyes were hard, his nostrils flared, and he radiated pure, murderous fury. A pair of Stormtroopers stood behind him, their expressions unseen beneath their helmets. By the shine of their armor, Malora guessed that at least one squad of Sato’s promised reinforcements had already arrived.

“Anything to report, Tuc?” Malora asked.

"We've found six of our men dead so far, Ma'am," Valaris grated without preamble. "No sign of the Rebel scum. I was about to send a patrol to sweep the area, but Commander Tarakan told me—He broke off as the senior medic’s head emerged from out of the emergency shelter. She met the major's gaze and shook her head slightly, and Valaris swallowed a savage curse. 

Malora’s eyes burned beneath the lenses of her helmet as she stared at the bodies of the fallen soldiers lying outside the tent, and the memory of the Rebel assault on her patrol was gall on her tongue while the major got himself back under a semblance of control. 

"I'm afraid this isn't all of it, Ma'am," he said in a harsh, clipped voice. "If you'll come with me?" She nodded and started forward, but he waved one of his men back as he began to follow. "Not you." 

The trooper looked up at Malora, but something in Valeris's voice warned her, and she shook her head quickly. His expression turned mutinous for just a moment, then smoothed, and he stepped back. 

Valaris led Malora to the makeshift medical tent, then stopped and swallowed. The pair of Stormtroopers that greeted her looked odd. For a moment, she couldn't understand why, then she realized: they'd removed their helmets, and both of them were members of Sharyn Atlera’s platoon. The realization struck a terrible icicle through her, and she quickened her pace, then slid to a halt in the open flap of the emergency shelter. 

"Trooper, you've got to let me help her," she heard a voice whisper. "Please. We've got to take care of her." 

It was the squad’s medic, and her strong, confident voice was fogged with tears as she bent over the bloody, battered Stormtrooper on the slab of ceramacrete that had been converted into a makeshift surgical bed. The man’s face was almost unrecognizable under the layers of mud and the bloodied scar running down his left cheek, but Malora knew who it was, just as she recognized the equally injured, even more terribly battered officer clutched in the soldier’s arms. 

“It’s Trooper Horne, of Lieutenant Atlera’s section,” she observed. 

“Affirmative, Ma’am,” the medical officer replied. “He came to see her as soon as Major Valaris gave him the news. He’s… he’s been with her ever since he heard the news, and he hasn’t let anyone else near her. Not even me.” 

She gestured with one hand towards the ceramacrete slab. The Stormtrooper-no older than a recently graduated cadet- clung to his companion desperately, trying to shield her with his own body, and Malora stepped forward numbly. She knelt beside the bunk, and the recruit—the boy—on it stared at her with broken, animal eyes and whimpered in terror.

"Trooper," Malora said, and a spark of something like humanity flickered far back in those brutalized eyes. "Do you know who I am, Trooper? The dazed Stormtrooper stared at her an endless moment longer, then jerked his head in a spastic, uncoordinated nod.

“C-Captain Dessyk. Of Special Forces?” 

“Yes, Trooper,” Malora affirmed. "We're here to help you." She would never know how she kept her voice soft and even, but she did. She touched the stiff, matted hair gently, and the traumatized Stormtrooper flinched as if he himself had taken a blow. 

“I tried to save her…” Horne stammered, his eyes brimmed with tears and his body shaking with every word. He repeated the sentence two more times, each syllable heavy with bitter guilt and desperation. “I tried to save her… I tried…”

"We're here to help you, Trooper," Malora informed him, fighting through the wave of tears which slid down her own face, "but you have to let the medic see Lieutenant Atlar. She and I will do our best to try and help her, but in order to do that you have to let her go." 

The Stormtrooper whimpered, clinging even more tightly to the limp body in his arms, and Malora brushed her fingers against his hair.

"Please, Trooper. She’ll be alright if you let us help her."

The frightened recruit looked down at Sharyn Atlera's bloody, mud-caked face, and his whimpers of desperation collapsed into a terrible sob. For a moment, Malora thought he would refuse, that they'd have to take Sharyn from him by force, and she sighed with relief as his desperate grip gradually loosened. The medical officer stepped in quickly, lifting the barely breathing Lieutenant in her armored arms, and the Stormtrooper named Vero Horne screamed like a soul in hell as Major Valaris stepped in to escort him away from the medical shelter, one arm braced across his trembling shoulder.   
  
A pair of narrow azure pupils fluttered open, a bruised and battered face turned slightly, and the half-conscious, terrified form of Sharyn Atlar reached out with her one good hand to brush her fingers against her lieutenant’s face. Tears ran down her bloodstained face,, pooling at Malora’s feet in a puddle of unspoken torment. Her long dark hair was matted and tangled, and her heart pounded in her chest as she struggled desperately to orient herself. Every part of her burned with searing pain, and Malora resisted the urge to draw her closer.

Cautiously, Malora lifted Sharyn’s prone figure across her lap, feeling desperately, beyond all hope, for some sort of faint pulse. 

She was incredibly relieved when she felt one. 

“Sharyn!” In desperation, Malora called her friend’s name, not caring if anyone else heard. She would risk compromising her position, risk capture or even death itself, if it meant that her second officer had somehow survived her encounter with the rebels.

Malora reached to embrace her companion as Horne had done, only stopping once she realized the state of her injury.The place where the Rebel’s stun baton had struck across her face caused her to wince with agony, and she watched Sharyn grimace as the frigid air bit the space between her third and fourth ribs. The cutting edge of the vibro-blade had shredded apart her jacket and torn into her flesh, and every part of her ached as she struggled to take her companion’s hand.  
“Sharyn…” she whispered. It was a faint echo more than a spoken name, but she spoke it regardless, pleading desperately for an answer. But no answer came. 

After a few moments, the lieutenant stirred in her arms, coughing up a massive globule of blood. Malora sat beside her, whispering her name and praying that she was somehow not too late. Sharyn tried desperately to speak, yet all she could manage was an agony filled, strained whisper as the heavy air bit through into her injured side. 

“Sharyn?” Malora asked again.

“M-Mal?” came Sharyn’s reply, faint but present nonetheless. There was a twinge of desperation in her words.

“Thank goodness you’re still with me. Are you alright?”

“We did it,” Sharyn whispered. “We drove off those Rebel bastards.” A pause. “We did beat them, didn’t we?” 

A surge of panic raced through Malora’s thoughts, but she managed to force down the cry of agony building in her throat. “Yes, Sharyn,” she managed after a moment. “We beat them back. Together.” 

“Together,” Sharyn repeated. She smiled even wider, but the pain soon twisted that smile into an agonizing wince. Her hands inched weakly towards the wound, and she gasped for breath, her inhalations short and staggered. 

“Shh, shh,” Malora comforted. “You’re alright, Sharyn. You’re going to be alright. I'm here. I'm here." 

Slowly, Sharyn’s eyes flickered open once more. Her heartbeat thundered in her chest, and she looked to her friend for comfort as exhaustion, pain and terror overwhelmed her senses all at once. At once she felt panic fill her, and she reached out desperately to take her commander’s hand. 

“Am… Am I dying, Mal?” she asked her, her words half slurred. 

“Not if I have anything to say about it,” Malora replied somberly, wiping the sweat—or was it a tear—from her bloodied face. “You're going to stay with me. And we're going to get out of this together.”

It was an honest enough reply, Malora thought to herself. She had seen vibro-blade injuries like this before, huge gashes that mangled the flesh and scraped the bone. But she had never seen one this devastating, and she forced the urge to vomit out of her mind. Desperately, she pressed her weight against her mangled side, doing her best to try and stop the bleeding. Sharyn looked into her eyes, blinking weakly as she forced a smile. 

Malora paused, staring down at the bloody laceration in her companion’s side. The Rebel’s energized blade had partially cauterized the wound, but crimson ichor still poured from her, flooding the ashen ground. She pressed one hand against her, and Sharyn screamed aloud, her cries wrenching at her heart. 

The medic leaned over, a stim-pack and a vial of bacta in her hands.

“Hold still, Lieutenant. I’m going to clean your injury,” she reassured her. “This may hurt for a moment.”

Sharyn nodded weakly, extending her hand weakly towards Malora. She clasped it tight, clenching her eyes shut as the medic applied the stim to her injured side. She whimpered in pain as the medication raced through her body, and Malora held her tight, comforting her as a bacta-patch and bandage were applied to her injured side. 

“That should keep her stable for now,” the medic told her.

  
Malora nodded with relief. She sat herself down beside Sharyn’s injured form, staring up into the swirling dust, her soul cold as the space beyond the ashen sky, and recounted the costs of her recent encounter with the Rebellion.

Three. Only _three_ of her patrol’s twelve Stormtroopers remained alive, not counting the two squads of replacements that had recently landed, and that terrifying figure in conjunction with the sight of Sharyn’s injuries had been enough to crack Malora’s calm resolve at last.

She peered out the flap of the shelter, watching a stream of muddy water trickle down the hillside towards the burnt out remains of the patrol’s probe. The air hung heavy with a damp mustiness, and the thick ashen smog hung heavy with the scent of blood and blaster gas. No light shone into the darkness, save the faint glow of some dying embers and what little natural illumination managed to shine its way through the heavy fog of war that hung heavy over the survivors

Malora’s own armor and uniform were slick with blood and covered in mud and debris, and the unmistakable stench of molten plastoid and seared flesh hung in the air about her. She sat beside her comrade, looking about the place where her patrol had staggered away from the Rebels’ onslaught, only to be met with further resistance as their enemy gunned their companions down around them. There had been no hope of escape. What the older Rebel’s sniper rifle hadn’t gunned down, the melee weapons of his companion had more than managed, and she now sat in the center of the patrol’s improvised trauma center, surrounded on all sides by the bodies of the victims of the relentless Rebel assault.

 _Her_ men, she reflected bitterly.

Nine men and women, some of the finest Stormtroopers she had ever known, lay sprawled about the hillside, their bodies limp and lifeless where they fell. The rain had already begun to wash away the blood and clear away the stench of smoke and blaster gas, but the memories still lingered, the horrors of the fire and smoke and terror, the panic and fear and desperation.

 _I killed them_ , she thought emptily. Whatever had happened, whatever had led to the disaster, she was the one who'd originally ordered her company to divert from their assigned mission and engage the enemy without first consulting her superiors. It had been her authority which had authorized the execution of that fatal order, her impulsiveness which had seen her assume overall command.

She drew a deep, shuddering breath and looked desperately in the direction of the toppled Citadel while the tears flowed faster and her memory replayed Torval Dreavs’ final moments with merciless clarity. She recalled how his blaster rifle flashed out in the darkness... how a well-placed shot from the Rebel marksman swept the helmet from his head… and the look that crossed his haggard, bloodstained face as the Rebel’s stun baton finally brought him to his knees, clutching his Sergeant’s lifeless body in his own as the two of them defied their assailant’s fury. He was a man who'd looked upon Hell. A man who wished he'd died with the victims of his failure, and she understood perfectly.

A sudden whimper escaped her parched throat as more tears streamed down her face, trickling down her cheeks as her eyes darted around the darkened battlefield, and her heart pounded in her chest as her heavy breaths came before hiccupping sobs. Shadows lurched and moved in her peripheral vision, the eerie silence of the aftermath of the battle becoming distorted and echoing within her mind. Her mind was slowly breaking under the horrors of her subconscious, things that no one should ever even have the slightest thought about chipping away at her psyche.

In that moment, Malora Dessyk didn't allow herself to think about her fallen comrades, or the weight of her loss, or even her own pain. She didn't think of anything. She only sat there, pressing Sharyn Atlera’s broken body against her own, and did her best not to think of anything at all.


	15. Chapter Eleven

Three landing craft from the Star Destroyer  _ Avenger _ had joined the survivors of Patrol Fourteen, their landing craft descending through the thick Scarif atmosphere like a pair of armored vultures. A squadron of TIE/Ln starfighters, from  _ Avenger’s  _ Beta Squadron, accompanied the  _ Sentinel _ class landing ships, and they had remained on station until the Stormtroopers, supplies, and cargo containers had all been deployed. Even above the howling wind and the pouring rain, the troopers on the ground could hear the distinct howling of the twin ion engines that gave the fighters their name, and, for the beleaguered survivors of the patrol, the sound of the escorts filled them with a sense of distant hope.

The three  _ Sentinels  _ landed at the base of the hillside, and each shuttle wasted no time deploying its seventy-five Stormtroopers without any sign of resistance. A pair of AT-ST walkers, also attached to the landing force, had also been deployed via cargo container, and were now scouting ahead of the main force, searching for some sign of the fleeing Rebels.

Upon landing, two squads of Stormtroopers from the 437 th Strike Legion’s Bellator Company quickly secured the hillside and established a defensive parameter, securing the high ground to establish an observation post. Other troopers escorted medical personnel and portable bacta tanks to the improvised field trauma center to lend aid to the injured survivors, while others helped clear a landing zone for the rest of the recovery expedition.

The sole member of the Imperial compliment who was not tied down with the petty inconveniences of operational security or logistics of the landing force stood at the top of the rise, looking down at the assembling troops with a growing sense of confidence. He ignored the swirling dust that choked and clawed at the lungs of the troopers under his command and was unaffected by the heavy wind that sprayed mud and ash across his darkened armor. These things did not concern him. He had more important matters upon his mind. 

The figure’s expression could not be read—his face was hidden beneath a wall of ceramic plastoid and armorplast modified from the helmet of one of the Republic’s clone commandos. Externally, save for its color, the helmet was virtually identical to the thousands of others that had been placed into service by the GAR, but the pure venom in the voice that hissed through the helmet's com system was far from that of a Clone. 

If the helmet’s occupant had ever held loyalties to the Grand Army of the Republic, they had long since died away. There was nothing left of the once proud soldier—no sense of purpose, no memory of honor or his former duty. No polished white armor that gleamed brightly in the sun, or respect for the order that had once ruled the galaxy. Only bitterness, hatred, and cold fury remained.

Once, the trooper had been known as ARC-7392, designated “Skipper.” Once, he had led a battalion of clones across the battlefields of the galaxy, cutting down Separatist forces in the name of order and justice and the Grand Army of the Republic. He had comrades then, brothers in arms who would willingly have died for him. He had fought with a purpose then, fought to see the Republic restored and the hated Separatist traitors driven from the galaxy.

But all of that had been taken from him in a flash, and he had been transformed by the fires of war into a cold and heartless killer. Where once a loyal clone had been, an Imperial now stood, a creation that merely parodied his former self.

His name was Commander Tavaros Tarakan, and he considered himself a loyal man.

His career had been cut short by the rise of the New Order, but unlike many clones who had entered the service of the Empire, he had embraced his new role and station willingly, without question or hesitation. He was a man of discipline and order, and as such he took his role as the Emperor’s enforcer very seriously. To him, Palpatine and his Empire were simply an extension of the Republic he had been created to defend, and there was no other cause he would rather serve.

He considered himself a harsh man.

Years of campaigning during the Clone Wars had shaped the once glory-hungry, eager recruit into a battle-hardened and experienced veteran. Because of this experience, he did not fancy officers who put their own standing ahead of the mission and the cause they had sworn to serve. While he valued initiative, and encouraged his men to engage the enemy as they saw fit, there was a part of him that still remembered the shadows of Umbara and the screams of his dying brothers on Geonosis. These memories, though distant, long-forgotten things, were harsh reminders of the realities of war, and he wished to instill within his men the absolute necessity of obedience and compliance within their ranks.

He considered himself a deadly man.

Most of the clone’s organic being had been upgraded by his new commanders; official records showed that seventy-eight percent of his body had been replaced, in some form or another, with cybernetics and enhancements. His joints were now durasteel, as were many of his bones, and three quarters of his limbs had been removed and replaced with mechanical prosthetics. A pair of gleaming vibroblades now permanently protruded from his wrists (although they could be retracted outside of combat using a manual override), and his right shoulder was permanently fused with a mounting point for a heavy repeater cannon.

Like many of his brothers, Tarakan relished in the modifications made to his aging frame. Disillusioned by the accelerated aging that had stripped away his ability to remain on the front-lines, the aging clone saw the Empire’s enhancements as a form of salvation, a means of continuing his service in the face of his own mortality. There was a certain irony to it all: by serving the Republic, he had become, in many ways, like the infamous General Grievous of the Separatist Alliance. And, like Grievous, Tarakan no longer considered himself a man. He was merely a soldier now, a loyal scion of the Empire.

He considered himself a thoughtful man.

During his time in Republic service, Tarakan had witnessed the horrors of the battlefield in almost every conceivable form. He had seen men torn apart by massed volleys of infantry, witnessed limbs hacked apart by vibroblades and men blasted to bloody ruin by artillery and vehicle fire. He had seen night-actions where friend and foe alike had been gunned down in the darkness, and watched the best companies in his Legion reduced to ruin in a few brief moments of slaughter. Yet in spite of this, he had obtained a sort of reputation among his brothers for remaining calm and composed even in the thickest of the action, his thoughts remaining collected even as the horrors of the battlefield erupted around him.

Because of this experience, Tarakan was used to analyzing his battles. Every engagement, tactic, and battle strategy he had ever used was filed away within his memory, ready to be used in future operations. It had become something of a routine for him, a means of discovering his own weaknesses and the weaknesses of his enemies, in order to study them and prepare for future engagements.

Which was why, while the rest of his patrol recovered from the trauma of their injuries or greeted their new reinforcements, Tarakan sat away from his fellow Imperials, sweeping the battlefield for intelligence about his unknown assailants.

He was uncertain if more than two Rebels had attacked his patrol—subsequent sweeps by  _ Avenger’s _ patrols had found no evidence of additional hostile forces—but he was fairly confident that the destruction wrought upon his own battered ranks had, at the very least, been fully settled. One of the Rebels had sustained injuries during the fighting, that much was certain—Tarakan had felt the tip of his own vibroblades slash into the woman’s flesh as she screamed her defiance. Though he had injured one of the traitors during the struggle, the second rebel had ferociously defended his injured companion with every ounce of remaining strength. Tarakan’s men had continued to skirmish with them for a few brief moments, but the enemy had stood fast, pinning down Tarakan’s survivors with a volley of suppressive fire and ending the lives of several Stormtroopers before the beleaguered Imperials finally made the decision to retreat. 

Bitterness at quitting the field left a foul taste in Tarakan’s parched mouth, but even as the remains of his broken battalion disengaged from the fury of the melee, he realized, however bleakly, that not all had been lost. The Rebel survivors were no longer safe. Their presence had been detected, and, with the rest of the expeditionary force about to arrive from orbit, there would be little chance for them to escape. By engaging his patrol, the Rebels had, unwittingly, sealed their own fate. 

He smiled at this knowledge, for he knew then, in spite of being driven from the field, that his forces were not entirely defeated. They had found what they sought: evidence of Rebel survivors on the surface, and knowledge that the recovery of the archives data was now in jeopardy. One of the Rebels had been wounded, and, more importantly, they had been driven back onto the defensive, forced to flee in the face of inevitable reinforcements. True, he conceded, the costs to the Empire had also been great, but this was no defeat—it was simply a new beginning. 

With rising hope, Tavaros Tarakan turned to one of the patrolling Stormtroopers, who had made her way up the hill to join him. 

“Sergeant,” he rasped, locking his eyes upon her as the towering soldier turned to face him with a crisp salute. 

“Sir?” the Sergeant responded. 

“Relay a message to Captain Sato immediately,” Tarakan snarled. She must send more troops to the surface at once. Have her send down her marines if she must, just get me more men! Tell her that if I am granted reinforcements, that the next engagement with these Rebels will be more decisive.” He brandished his vibro-sword, angling the gleaming blade upwards towards the ashen sky, his dark eyes flashing with determination beneath his helmet.

“Upon my word, the next time I meet these Rebels, the bastards will pay for what has happened to us here. I swear, the next time our forces meet, I will show no quarter.”


	16. Chapter Twelve

**Chapter Twelve**

Jyn recognized the outline of the Citadel looming in the distance, though she hadn’t been paying close enough attention on her previous visit to know _exactly_ what she was looking at. Even after the Death Star had scoured the planet, much of the Empire’s structural engineering had somehow survived the cataclysm that had engulfed it —and that fact filled her with a cold and unrecognizable sort of fear.

Through Cassian’s quadnocs, she could see _Rogue One_ , (or at least a shuttle that vaguely resembled it) smoldering on a distant landing pad, its wings cratered by a million falling bits of shrapnel, the glass of its cockpit blasted out and scattered across the ashen surface of the pad. The landing ramp was down, and, if she squinted hard enough, she thought she recognized the charred outlines of bodies scattered on the platform in front of the derelict craft.

She could not help but think of Bodhi in that moment, and she motioned to Cassian in the direction of the shuttle. She was somewhat taken aback, however, when he shook his head grimly, gesturing with his own hand towards the toppled spire before them. The look in his eyes, however, told her everything she needed to know, for she could see a tinge of regret and sadness creep across his expression, hardly visible beneath his mask of composure, but present nonetheless. 

She couldn’t really blame him. In this moment, there was no time for sentiment or mourning. There was no time to pause and remember their fallen. That could come later, after they had seen to their own safety. 

_Unless…_

Cassian Andor was an experienced soldier, made heartless by the struggles of his covert war, and Jyn knew it. Draven and Melshi and Pao and Tonc and Kay, everything Cassian had experienced with them and every secret he had ever told them—all of it was a mere shadow before the Death Star’s blazing fury.

He was trained not to form attachments, not to allow his feelings to interfere with his duty.

_Am I also expendable?_ She didn’t know why she let the thought possess her. Whether it was an echo of her time on Jedha, a reflection of Eadu, or the aftermath of Scarif she could not tell. 

She shook herself, forcing the thought out of her mind. There was nothing to substantiate those fears. Cassian wasn’t Saw Gerrera, and this wasn’t Jedha or the cave on Lah’mu. He had stuck his neck out for her, gathered volunteers for her mission, and almost died for her so that she could relay the Death Star plans to the Rebel Fleet. _Don’t lose track of the objective, Jyn_. _Focus on the present. You have no reason to doubt him now._

She blinked away an unshed tear for Bodhi and the others, steeled her resolve, and followed Cassian deeper into the Imperial complex.

***

As the two of them wound their way through the landing pad’s access port and maneuvered their way across the now dysfunctional monorail track towards the heart of the Imperial complex, Cassian Andor made it a point to listen to his surroundings.

He listened the way Draven had taught him, the way his training had conditioned him to do. As he had on Jedha, Cassian listened to his environment, taking in every detail with calm and collected vigilance.

He listened to the wind swirl about the chasm beneath their feet, taking note when a sudden gust was about to blast its way across their direct path. He listened for comm frequencies, the steps of AT-ST walkers, and other signs of their Imperial pursuers.

And, as he had on Jedha, he made it a point to listen for Jyn. Mostly, he listened for Jyn.

He traced the sound of her breathing. He listened for her voice. He tried to determine how far ahead of him she was without looking in her direction.

He was not sure why he fixed his thoughts on her so intently.

It wasn’t like Jedha, when he had seen her as merely a means to reach his true objective. The two of them had not known each other well then, and Cassian had considered her somewhat expendable at the time. But things were different now. Events on Jedha, Eadu, and Scarif had changed Cassian, allowing him to lower his guard and see beyond his mission.   
  
Jyn Erso had also changed. The fire that had been so briefly snuffed out by the power of the Death Star had been reignited, the spark of rebellion reborn within her soul. She was no longer the frightened girl she had been before Jedha, the hardened criminal who had concealed her vulnerabilities behind a wall of durasteel. Before, she would have hidden away at the thought of getting involved, now she moved with an urgency he had not seen in her since she first learned of the Death Star. The intensity of her past remained a part of her, even after the full might of the Empire’s vengeance had been unleashed upon her, but her confidence had only grown after the attack on Scarif. 

He had suspected in the past that Jyn Erso was unafraid to die. Now the Death Star had proven to him that she couldn’t.

And yet, a trace of that fear still lingered. Cassian couldn’t blame her for it, for he could feel hints of the same uncertainty creeping about the back of his own mind. It wasn’t the fact that he was now in the heart of enemy territory, escorting a wounded companion further behind hostile lines.

“Are you alright?” he asked her. “You seem to be slowing down.”

“I’m fine,” Jyn said. “We’d best keep moving.”

Cassian frowned. “You look tired. Didn’t you get any sleep?” he asked her.

Jyn only shook her head. She was too tired to think straight, too tired to even remain on her feet for much longer. She staggered forward off the monorail, slumping to the ground with a dull expression on her face. Cassian raced to her side, extending his good arm to help support her weight.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Cassian repeated. “You didn’t sleep at all. I heard you… you were speaking to someone.”

“You don’t trust me, Cassian?” Jyn frowned. “I told you I’m alright.” 

Cassian shook his head. “I do trust you, Jyn, ever since Yavin. But you need to be able to trust me, too. You said it yourself, trust goes both ways. If you can’t tell me what happened last night… how will I be able to help you?” 

“Fine. You’d better sit down, then,” Jyn told him, shaking her head as she lowered herself into a sitting position. “This might take a while to explain.”

***

As she told her story of the events of the night before, Cassian listened intently to Jyn’s words. The inflection of her voice told the story clearly enough: the presence of Chirrut Imwe had somehow come to her during the night, and spoken to her about her situation. As she spoke, Cassian resisted the urge to scoff to himself. There was little chance of that, he thought.

But at the mention of the Guardian’s name, Cassian straightened. The thought that their Force-sensitive friend had somehow influenced their survival was an interesting one to say the least. And yet, given the miraculous nature of their survival, it was not outside the realm of possibility. He had overheard rumors that some Jedi and other Force-sensitive beings had survived deadlier things than a full-scale planetary bombardment, after all. And, from her limited understanding of such things, the so-called Force was a strange thing, one that even the wise Guardians of the Whills did not appear to completely understand.

Cassian Andor was not a Jedi, nor was he a Sith. He had never held any interest in the teachings of an ancient religion; his duties encompassed far more important things than the study and interpretation of the mystical beliefs of a bygone era. Yet as he listened to Jyn speak of her encounter with the Guardian, he could not help but wonder if the tales told about the Force were more than just legends after all.

When she finished speaking, he turned to her, his expression overwhelmed by too many thoughts at once. She looked at him, and extended one hand to touch him lightly on the shoulder.

“Do you believe me?” she asked.

“I don’t exactly know what to believe,” Cassian admitted. “I’ve never exactly been one for religion or superstition. A spy’s life is based on facts, not unsubstantiated beliefs, and I’ve traveled from the most distant worlds of the Outer Rim to the Galactic Core and back again. Nowhere have I found substantial evidence of an all-powerful Force. It’s simply not something I believe in.”

“Just because you can’t see something,” Jyn replied with a smile, pausing to brush one finger across the cord of her Kyber necklace, “doesn’t mean it isn’t there.”

“What do you mean, Jyn?” Cassian asked.

“Take me for instance. Before our mission to Jedha, I never thought the Rebellion would come to mean more to me than pain and suffering of my past… but now? Now I see why they fight, why the Empire has to be stopped. The Rebel cause has always existed, regardless of my role within it. I’ve just never taken the time to try to understand it… until now.” 

“You said on Jedha that the Empire wasn’t a problem for you if you didn’t look up,” Cassian recollected. “Do you still believe that now?” 

“The Empire opened my eyes to the horrors of the wider galaxy. I… I can’t afford to stop looking up now,” Jyn said silently. “And I won’t. Not after I learned what’s waiting for me.” 

“That’s not what you told me before Jedha.” Cassian noted.

Jyn shook her head, glancing back towards the distant beach. “The Jyn that spoke to you before Jedha was afraid to face her past. She lived a hard life, and she had given up hope. There was no way she would have stuck her neck out for a greater rebellion.” 

“And now?” 

“Now, I see that there’s more than just myself at stake, something I didn’t see back then. My father gave his life so that we might have a chance to defeat the Empire. I intend to use my second chance to finish the fight he started. I mean, I promised him we'd stop the Death Star, and we’ve done our part to do that, but sooner or later, the Empire will build another. Or a larger Star Destroyer, or amass an army too large for the Rebellion to overcome. Whether they believe it or not, the Alliance can't be everywhere at once. If they can't help, someone has to be there to give hope to the galaxy."

“And that someone… is you?” Cassian asked. 

"I think so," she replied simply. “This might not be the life I wanted as a girl, but I already made my choice when I first chose to go to Scarif to fulfill my father’s dying wish.”

Cassian nodded. "And who will you fight for?"

"For Jedha, for Scarif, for my parents and my friends,” Jyn listed. “For the ones I’ve lost, for the ones who can’t keep fighting."

He lifted his head. "For Rogue One?"

"For Rogue One, Cassian," she told him softly. 

“In that case,” Cassian replied simply. “We’d best keep moving after we’ve finished our meal here. The Imperials are probably tracking us. We’d best not remain in one place for too long. If they catch us…”  
  
He let the thought trail off. No further words needed to be said.

"You were right about one thing," Cassian said, as the two of them finished their rations and rose to continue on their way.

"What is that?" asked Jyn.

Cassian smiled, gesturing up at the sky. "We survived the Death Star. I suppose that means that someone was out there after all."


	17. Chapter Thirteen

**Chapter Thirteen**

Taravos Tarakan stood silently on a ridge overlooking the landing pad, escorted by a pair of Death Troopers who had been assigned to him as guards. For the first time since arriving on Scarif, he felt a sense of accomplishment fill him. A defensive perimeter was being established. More and more transports had arrived in-system, bearing troops, temporary fortifications, and vehicles to the desolate surface of the planet. Soon, the next phase of the operation could begin, and he could turn his attention to other matters.

Yet even as he allowed himself to savor the sight of the expeditionary force descending on the ruined archives, beneath the surface, a raging inferno seemed to blaze within him, a firestorm that appeared to consume the deepest recesses of his mind. The Rebels who had eluded his patrol had dared to defy the might of the Empire, and, in doing so, had defied the old soldier’s very being.  
  
Rebels were alive on Scarif. They had somehow escaped the Death Star’s wrath, and he wanted to know how they had escaped, and why they had returned to the Citadel.

Through his electrobinoculars, Tarakan watched as a pair of All-Terrain Scout Transports descended the rise and disappeared into the billowing dust, followed closely by two squads of infantry. The air had thickened, and so the walkers had been retrofitted with powerful searchlights in place of their standard-issue concussion grenade launchers. While this theoretically reduced the AT-STs’ overall firepower, the powerful lights offered the walkers an increased level of utility, as it allowed them to cut through the heavy layers of ash and dust that even now threatened to cover their viewports.

The walkers were not the first Imperial forces to return to the Archives complex. A vanguard force, consisting of a squad of scout bikers and a pair of _Viper_ type probe droids, had been sent far ahead of the main advance under strict orders to eliminate the fleeing Rebels on sight.

The sound of his comlink chimed, and he responded. Major Valaris’ voice cut through the heavy interference. “Valaris to Command.”  
  
“Command here,” Tarakan said warily. “What’s your status, Major? Any sign of the Rebels?”

Valeris ignored the question. “Are you certain we should continue with this course of action, Sir?” he asked. “Captain Sato was quite specific about our objectives. Our priority should be securing the landing zone for the recovery team, not chasing after suspected survivors. We don’t know if the Rebels are even alive, and I’d rather not spread our forces too thinly.”  
  
“Even the possibility of survivors poses a threat to us, Major,” Tarakan replied, pausing long enough to stroke the edge of his wrist blade with one finger of his cybernetic hand. “We cannot allow the data recovery operation to be compromised in any way. If there are survivors, I want them eliminated before they can escape or recollect themselves.”

“I understand, sir,” Valaris replied. “We will double our efforts. I’ll have Platoons two through five initiate sensor sweeps with their transports, and order the scout bikes to do another fly-over. I merely question the logic of ordering our entire force to pursue the Rebels, instead of attending to our assigned mission. We’ve no idea where they might have fled to. To initiate such a search would take weeks, at least, and even then we’re not guaranteed to detect anything.”

Tarakan’s respirator hissed over the comm. “Do you take me for a fool, Major Valeris? I have no intention of dispatching our _entire_ force in pursuit of these Rebels,” he replied coldly. “Instead, most of the company will remain on the surface to help the second wave establish a defensive perimeter, while our scouts and a single squad of Stormtroopers investigate the lower levels of the facility for signs of potential sabotage.”  
  
He turned to the woman at his side, his expression masked behind his helmet. “Captain Dessyk, you have command of the away party.”

“Sir?” Malora stammered. “Are you sure that is a wise decision? Major Valaris is the more experienced officer. Surely he…”  
  
“...Did not allow the Rebels to escape,” Tarakan rasped. “The loss of our patrol is on you, Captain. I suggest you correct it. Need I remind you, your life… is in my hands. Moff Telos recommended you for this assignment personally following your failure on Fest. I would hate to tell him that I was forced to end your career prematurely.”

“You’re as cold as Vader himself,” Malora muttered under her breath. She couldn’t help it. Her usual means of handling criticism was deflecting it back, but considering the circumstances, she suddenly realized how unwise that decision was.

The cold grasp of durasteel fingers around her throat rammed home the nature of her mistake.  
  
“If you had failed under Lord Vader, you wouldn’t be here,” Tarakan replied, his voice hissing through the respirator of his helmet. “He is far less forgiving of _incompetence_ than I am. _”_ He released his grip on her, throwing her to the ground roughly. She coughed and sputtered as air raced back into her lungs, and she nodded weakly.  
  
“I understand, Commander,” Malora replied weakly, hanging her head in shame.  
  
“Be thankful I am merciful, Miss Dessyk,” the ex-Clone said, and there was venom in his gaze.

***  
Officially, the Scarif archives complex had never been designed to withstand sustained orbital bombardment, or for that matter, the impact of a highly experimental Imperial superlaser. The Empire’s designers had assumed that the orbital defenses and the planetary shield gate were more than capable of protecting the data vault, and they had also made the all-too-common assumption that their defenses were all but invulnerable. Thus, the engineers who crafted the Scarif data vault had taken little precaution against orbital bombardment, prioritizing archival storage space over defensive capabilities. They had designed the towering communications spire to house a massive computer core and data filing system, with little regard as to how to protect said computer core from the possibility of attack. After all, the shield gate was supposedly impenetrable. How would an enemy hope to bring down a target they could not even reach?

Unofficially, however, the construction of the archives was a far more complex affair. 

The Imperial Security Bureau had known from the very beginning that the secrets stored within the Scarif military complex would prove irresistible to prying eyes. The rebellion would inevitably strike the vault at some point; thus, the engineers who had built Scarif Base had purposefully designed the towering spire to stand out above the dense tropical foliage like a beacon of opportunity. The enemy could break the shield. They could capture or even destroy the base, but the data it contained would not be so easily taken. 

This was because not all of the vault complex was visible from the surface.

Hidden deep beneath the spire, outside of the range of most visual scanners, a maze of carefully concealed tunnels and hidden bunkers lay obscured from view, a maze of durasteel and ceramacrete carefully hidden deep beneath the glossy azure sea. This network had been designed as a fail-safe, built with the sole intention of protecting the vast network of sensitive data from the event of utter critical failure. Each section had been designed with its own shield generators, power supplies, and military equipment, allowing it to function as a single fortified position which could be autonomously garrisoned and defended. Even the spire was a redundancy, for the central computer was designed to be lowered into the bunker at the single press of a button, preserving the data in the archives from destruction even in the face of overwhelming bombardment.

The entire complex was, in many ways, the perfect deception. 

***

Still seated on the edge of his bed, Trooper Vero Horne, Imperial Stormtrooper Corps, reached up with a shaking hand and touched the face of Coria Veldor, now growing cold. He brushed his fingers softly across the dying Shoretrooper’s lifeless eyes, gently pulling the lids closed over the clouded blue field which had, only a few short hours before, been filled with life. 

He let his hand rest there for a moment and let his own eyes close as he tried to gather himself together. He could hear the screams and the moaning of wounded soldiers around him, the wounded members of the patrol who had somehow managed to escape the desolate surface of Scarif, all pleading for relief from their injuries. In spite of the futility of it all, for just a moment, he wondered if Coria’s voice might somehow be heard, a faint whisper beneath the layers of desperate cries of the dying and the maimed. 

In his heart, he knew that the end had already come, Yet, somehow, he refused to allow himself to accept the evidence before him. Instead, he sat in complete silence, gazing forlornly into the distance, before returning his eyes desperately to Lieutenant Veldor’s unmoving body. There was a part of him that clung desperately to hope, that longed to believe that she might somehow embrace him in her arms once more and bring him comfort. But as the seconds slipped by, one after the other, he realized at last that his longing was in vain. 

The last vestiges of hope had left the surface of Scarif. The rebellious traitors had seen to that. 

In a way, the relative peace of Lieutenant Veldor’s end should have brought him at least a remote sense of comfort. He had seen others killed in battle during his first action: blasted into bloody rags by blaster fire or stabbed to death by the thrust of Rebel vibroblades. He had seen others who had lived through such horrifying injuries only to later die of infection and illness. Compared to those men, Coria had been lucky. She had died in relative peace, unburdened by mutilating injuries or infected wounds. These things should have brought him comfort, but no relief came. Instead, only tears of bitter sorrow and regret came to him here, leaving his heart as empty as the corridor outside. 

She wouldn’t have wanted him to grieve for her this way, he reflected solemnly, brushing the tears out of his eyes. Coria was a strong officer, stronger than Horne considered himself to be, and she deserved far more than the single stray blaster bolt that had ended her brief life. Given the choice, she would have preferred death in the midst of a heated battle, struck down at the head of a battalion with the banners of the New Order blazing overhead, or at peace in her own bed, with her comrades by her side. 

And yet, he reminded himself with a cold stare, the fact that she had been slain was far more important than how the deed had been enacted. Yet there was no relief from the painful truth which loomed before him. His friend was dead. The word, being the representation of an absence of life, the cessation of mortality, he understood clearly. But the idea that _Coria_ was dead felt almost impossible for him to grasp. He never thought he would mourn for someone so deeply, yet he could feel the sting of her absence more deeply than he could ever imagine. 

No, he thought to himself with a bitter grimace, forcing the thoughts aside. Not here, not now. He was a Stormtrooper, a servant of his Emperor. He could not let himself feel the pain and reality, not yet. First, he must finish the entirety of the task which had been assigned to him, and leave the scene with all of the dignity that he could muster. Coria, his companion, his _friend_ , would have expected no less.

He opened his eyes again, and looked one last time at the still pale figure on the bed. In death, Lieutenant Veldor appeared even younger, the lines of pain and worry now smoothed out in peaceful repose. The agony of the past few days had miraculously left no marks on her smooth face... now forever youthful, never to grow old or weary, to live on now only in memory.

He rose, and looked around him for a moment. Captain Dessyk had not returned to the medical tent after Major Valaris had led him from Lieutenant Atlera’s side, and no reports had come that Lieutenant Atlera had even survived her operation. That too concerned him. Of all the soldiers of Bellator Squad, the Lieutenant had been the most kind to him. Unlike the others, who had seen him as little more than another rookie, Sharyn had helped him hone his impulses and skills into practical combat experience. The thought that she might have died also terrified him, and he swallowed heavily, trying to force the thought out of his mind. 

For just a few more moments, no one else in the galaxy knew that Coria had passed. For a little longer, he could gaze at his friend's face and pretend that she merely slept; that in a moment the blue eyes would open and he would hear the familiar, sleep-husked voice asking him some concerned question.

A harsh hissing from the direction of the medical bay’s hatch brought him out of his reverie. He turned abruptly as Malora Dessyk quietly entered the room, her helmet and respirator tucked neatly beneath one arm. With a murmured grunt, Horne cleared his throat self-consciously and walked over to meet her, raising his hand in the traditional Imperial salute.

His face must have held the news, for Captain Dessyk sighed, her dark green eyes filled with remorse. 

"She is gone, then, Vero?" The familiarity in the use of his first name seemed to frighten him, and he stammered quietly under his breath as his mind formulated a reply.

"I fear so, Ma’am." He strove to speak naturally, tried to form words around the great lump forming in his throat. "It... was very fast, in the end. I doubt she felt very much."

Slowly, he forced himself to regain his composure. The time to grieve would come, but it was not now, not in the presence of his commanding officer. Straightening his uniform, he inhaled deeply, praying that the last traces of redness had vanished from his face. "I must personally thank you for your care of her during her final moments… and for your care of Lieutenant Atlera." 

"I am sorry for this whole miserable affair, Vero." Dessyk told him as she held out her hand. "If it would make it any easier for you... I would be glad to attend to any necessary arrangements with regard to Lieutenant Veldor. I know how much she meant to you… to all of us" 

Vero answered with difficulty as he shook Halcor’s hand. "Thank you, Major... indeed, if that was Lieutenant Veldor’s wish, you must of course respect it. I shall, of course, be responsible for sending her belongings back to her family once we return to the _Avenger_." He coughed slightly to cover the tremor in his voice.

"Of course," the Captain replied. 

Horne nodded his thanks, not trusting his voice to say anything further, and slipped through the open door... only to discover that it was not the empty space he had supposed. Framed by the doorway stood the muscular, dark-haired frame of Major Valaris, returned from wherever he had been. His youthful, pleasant face was creased with obvious concern. 

“We’re moving out presently,” he said with a cold inflection in his voice. “Are you ready to get back in the fight, trooper?”

“How is Lieutenant Atlera?”

“She is recovering well enough. We’re moving her into the medical facility on Level 5-Alpha, along with the other wounded.”

Vero hesitated. “Other… wounded?”

“We located some Imperial survivors in one of the upper levels of the subterranean vault. Most of them were badly injured. We’re moving all injured personnel into the lower levels in case those rebels we located earlier attempt another attack.”

“I understand, sir. What are my orders?”

“You are to accompany Captain Dessyk on her patrol to locate the information in the Archives. If you find the Rebels, they are to be terminated immediately.”

“I understand, Major.”  
  
Thinking of his friends, Vero followed Malora to rejoin his squad.


	18. Chapter Fourteen

From her position behind a collapsed heap of ceramacrete, Jyn observed the Imperial patrol as it moved steadily closer. There were more of them than before,with vehicles and better equipment at their disposal.    
  
“I don’t like the look of that,” she told Cassian. He took the quadnocs, peering through the dust towards the approaching Imperial column. 

“Neither do I,” he said. “There’s a lot more of them than the last patrol we encountered. I wonder what they’re looking for.”   
  
“Us, more than likely,” Jyn replied. “No doubt the patrol reported us to their superiors after we attacked them.”   
  
“More than likely,” Cassian affirmed. “But that doesn’t explain the walkers, or the transports. If the Imperials were just looking for us, I doubt they’d bother landing the vehicles, since there’s only two of us. If I were the Imperial commander, I’d simply send more probe droids and wait for one of them to detect something. No, Jyn. They’re up to something more.”

Jyn nodded. “I agree. I can’t begin to imagine what though. Everything worth protecting was destroyed by the Death Star… unless.” She paused, looking around to get her bearings for a moment.

“Unless what?” Cassian asked.   
  
“Unless there’s a part of the base we haven’t seen,” Jyn considered.   
  
“In that case we’d better get moving if we want to find it,” Cassian replied. “But first, we’ll need to find some sort of map or schematic of the base to go off of. With those troopers behind us, I doubt we’ll have much time to get our bearings.”

“Sounds like a good idea,” Jyn acknowledged. “But where would we find such a map? The base is completely destroyed. I doubt any of the computer terminals are still intact, and it’s not like there are any physical maps of the place just lying around.”   
  
“If only Kay had survived,” Cassian mused to himself thoughtfully. “Being an Imperial droid he’d probably have the schematics of a place like this stored away in his memory files. But he’s gone now….” He broke off the thought, and Jyn watched his expression fall away.

“Wait.. what did you say?” she interrupted.    
  
“I was just wishing Kay had survived,” Cassian replied. “He’d know what to do.”   
  
“Cassian, you may have just answered our problem.”   
  
“How?”   
  
“Do you remember when K2 downloaded that other droid’s files into his memory, in order to get us into the citadel? I think I remember him downloading the master schematics of the base. If he did, then there’s our map of the complex.”   
Cassian shook his head grimly. “You’re forgetting one thing, Jyn. Kay isn’t here. Need I remind you, Jyn, he was in the Citadel tower when the troopers cut him down, and we watched the spire get blown up by the Death Star. There’s no way he survived any of that.”   
  
“By all accounts the Death Star should have destroyed us too, Cassian,” Jyn reminded him. “But we’re still here. There may not be much hope of finding Kay, or those files, but we have to try. In any case it’s better to try searching for a means of escape than to just sit here and wait for the Empire to find us. If they capture us, we’ll be tortured for information and most likely killed.”   
  
“Agreed, but we’re going to need a plan first. Do you have any idea where that part of the Citadel might have landed?”   
  
Jyn pointed in the direction of a trail of rubble, leading away from the spire towards one of the landing pads. “The spire collapsed in this direction. The odds are highest there.”   
  
“And what if we don’t find Kay?” Cassian asked. “What will we do then?”

“We could target one of those Stormtrooper transports,” Jyn suggested. “There’s likely some sort of terminal aboard. At the very least, there’s supplies and equipment aboard that we can salvage.”   
  
“It’s worth a try,” Cassian said. “But how are you going to isolate a single transport from the rest of the convoy? We may have taken that patrol, but we’ve neither the ammunition nor the numbers to take on that entire group of troopers on our own.”   
  
“But we do have these,” Jyn suggested. She held up the comlink attached to her utility belt. “These comms are set to an Imperial frequency. If I can get far enough away from the convoy, I can send out a signal and draw out one of the transports.”   
  
“What exactly would you say?” Cassian inquired.    
  
“I’d tell them I managed to salvage one of their files. That should get their attention.”   
  
“Just hope they only send one squad after you,” he reminded her. “I don’t want to think about losing you.” 

Jyn shrugged. “I’ve been on my own before, Cassian. I know how to elude Imperial patrols.”   
  
“Keep your blaster close, and your comlink closer,” Cassian told her. “I’ll call you if anything goes wrong.” 

She nodded. “Cassian,” she whispered, her voice barely heard above the wind. 

He turned back to face her. “Yes, Jyn?” 

“May the Force be with you.”


	19. Chapter Fifteen

**Chapter Fifteen**

It was often said that no plan of battle survived initial contact with the enemy.

Shifts in position, unforeseen contacts, or sudden ambushes could easily derail the best laid tactical plans, forcing significant shifts in the operational doctrine of an engagement. The more complicated the plan, the more likely it was that something could go awry.

Which, for Cassian Andor, meant that slipping into the heart of the ruins of an enemy fortification without any particular plan whatsoever wasn’t exactly the worst idea.

Then again, it probably wasn’t the  _ best _ idea either. 

He wound his way through the ruins of the Citadel, keeping one hand firmly on the handle of his blaster rifle. His eyes squinted through the blowing dust, and he kept low, moving slowly, cautiously. He had only a vague idea of where he was headed, (after all, the Citadel had been ever so slightly more  _ intact _ the last time he had visited it,) but he also knew that he somehow had to succeed. His shoulder throbbed with unimaginable pain, and he wondered, if only for a moment, if this idea was completely and utterly insane.

Not for the first time, he wondered what K2-SO would think of his odds of survival. Not that it mattered, of course. Kay was gone, and as far as Cassian was concerned, the odds of completing his objective were overwhelmingly low. There were no real statistical odds of his plan coming to fruition, but he nevertheless considered it his duty to at least try. 

After all, it was what Jyn would do. 

The sudden thought of his companion caused Cassian to shake himself. She was on her own, scouting another part of the ruins for supplies and shelter, and the possibility of her capture, or worse, was the last thing he cared to think about right now. The bacta and bandages had done a great deal to mend her wounds and ease her pain, but she was still badly injured. He hadn’t wanted to leave her, he admitted to himself. She had insisted she would be alright, that she had enough food and medical supplies to take care of herself.

He knew why she had done it: the presence of Imperials near the citadel had compromised their security. The surviving troopers would most surely contact their superiors about the death of their companions, and when Imperial reinforcements arrived, they would be informed of the presence of two rebels on the surface. By splitting up, not only would Jyn and Cassian be able to cover more ground, but they would also minimize the risk of being detected by any reinforcements that would inevitably arrive.

He reached for the comlink he had taken off of one of the dead Imperials. Switching it to the frequency Jyn and he had agreed upon, he activated it, waiting for a response. After a few moments, she picked up, her voice faint, broken, panicked.

_ “Rogue One to Stardust, do you read me?” _ He smiled at the nickname she had agreed to use as her callsign.  _ “This is Rogue One calling Stardust, do you copy?” _

_ “This is Stardust,” _ she replied, her voice faint.  _ “I’m here, Rogue One. Any sign of a more permanent location?” _

“Negative, Stardust. I’ll keep looking.”

He heard her mutter something in disappointment.

“Are you alright, Jyn?”

“I’ll be alright, Cassian,” she replied. “I needed to rest, and I’ve found cover, for the time being.”

“Good. Any sign of Imperial activity?”

“Not yet,” she said. “But I don’t know how much longer before they figure out one of their patrols went missing. I’ll keep you informed if I find anything worth mentioning.”

“Affirmative. I’ll do the same. Rogue One out.”

He switched off the com and cut across a collapsed passageway, carefully climbing over the rubble and loading another power pack into the E-11. The Imperial weapon felt clumsy in his hand when compared to his A-280, but he was in no position to complain. Lives were on the line, and he felt himself flinch as he brushed his injured shoulder against a fallen chunk of ceramacrete. Cursing under his breath, he pressed forward through the desolation, his finger centimeters from the trigger at all times.

A cool breeze swept across the wreckage, and he swept one palm wearily across his sweat streaked forehead. The stifling heat had begun to recede away, replaced by a temperature that might have almost seemed pleasant to the skin were it not for the chafing of the ash and the overwhelming stench of burning sulfur mingled with molten metal. Here and there beams of durasteel still glowed orange, and embers still flickered about the ruins. But Cassian paid no heed to these things. In spite of the pain, in spite of the throbbing in his shoulder and the strain placed upon every muscle of his body, he pressed onward, deeper and deeper into the collapsed ruins of the Citadel.

Here and there he saw bleached white armor surrounded by ash, the plasteel twisted and contorted into molten slag. For a moment, he wondered if he himself might have been found in such a state, crumbled to dust, flesh seared from bone and clothing burned away to nothingness. The gruesomeness of the thought brought him little comfort, and he turned his attention away from what remained of the Stormtroopers and continued on his way. 

At last, after what felt like an eternity, he came upon the object of his search. A gaping hole now loomed where the Archives spire had once stood. The catwalk where Cassian had fallen had collapsed away into the pit in a mangled ruin, and the spire itself had been scattered about the blast site for kilometers.

The chances of locating a permanent shelter for Jyn weren’t looking good, Cassian told himself. Nor were the chances of locating medical supplies for Jyn, as he couldn’t see much of  _ anything _ intact nearby. The Archives were completely gone, and with that any hope of finding assistance for his friend.

Unless…

He paused for a moment. A humanoid figure lay among the ruins, half destroyed and face-down in the dust. For a moment, Cassian wondered if it was a soldier’s body, but on closer inspection he began to have his doubts. For one thing, most of the organics killed by the Death Star had been completely obliterated. All that remained were molten slags of armor, and the sparking remains of what had once been wires.

The blackened, charred hulk of an android’s form lay half buried behind a slab of rubble. The weight of several floors of debris lay piled around the shattered humanoid frame, but it was still recognizable enough. Cassian advanced cautiously, wary of potential traps. His training had taught him to always survey the situation carefully and thoroughly, advice he heeded without hesitation as he climbed over collapsed pillars and half-buried chunks of broken ceramacrete and mangled durasteel. 

A few meters away, he extended one hand and reached out to the droid, half expecting it to power up and greet him in his usual fashion. He waited, his hand lingering, but was not shocked when no hand clasped around his own. 

K2SO was indeed gone. His shattered torso and shot out circuitry told the tale well enough: most of the droid had been shot by several blaster bolts and melted away by the collapsing superstructure of the Citadel tower. His lower limbs were buried deep beneath the collapsed rubble, impossible to recover, and his outstretched arm still clasped the remains of the blaster Jyn Erso had given him. The droid's face was expressionless; yet Cassian could almost sense the defiance filling his companion's eyes during his final moments. He sighed heavily, holding the shattered android tightly in his arms. The seconds passed and turned to minutes, and Cassian Andor wept quietly over the comrade he had lost and left behind. 

Yet although his physical being had been compromised, Kay's memories endured. His body had been shattered by the Empire, yet the most vital part of him, his head, full of his memories and experiences and programming, remained more or less intact. True, the fall from the heights of the Citadel had severely compromised the structural integrity of his cranial superstructure, and much of the carboplast plating that surrounded his circuits had more or less melted away in the fury of the Death Star, but the memory chip remained, buried deep in the center of his companion's artificial skull.

With those memories, Cassian reasoned, perhaps his fallen companion could assist him and Jyn even in death. Perhaps, his memories could unlock the secrets of this place or provide them access to a place that might protect them from the Empire. But that was not the only reason, he told himself.. Strategic asset or not, Kay was also Cassian’s friend, and there were other memories contained within that chip, memories Cassian did not wish to leave behind if he could avoid it.

First, though, he’d have to get him out of here, and return to Jyn.

"I'm sorry, old friend," Cassian muttered to himself, drawing his utility blade and prying at the remains of Kay's broken body. "I wasn't there to keep you with me. But I won't fail you again." 

Cassian Andor was an Alliance officer. He had never served the Galactic Empire, nor did he know much about their protocols or procedures. In his service for the Rebellion, he had studied, to an extent, the nature of the Empire, and K2SO had taught him some of the more intricate methods of their strategy and tactics. In return, Cassian had freed Kay from the shadow of the Empire, and granted him something far outside his original programming: individuality.

He had stripped away the Imperial identity of the droid, and replaced it with something of his own. In exchange, his companion had taught him the basics of Imperial strategic analysis and tactical procedure. The droid had taught him much during their time together and it was because of K2 that Cassian now recognized the pattern of the advancing Imperials moving steadily towards his location. 

In a way, it felt strange to Cassian, thinking like an Imperial. Yet, even as he remembered the lessons Kay had taught him, he also remembered his other training. Keep low, stay out of sight. Check your ammunition often, and look for extraction points at any opportunity. Fire and maneuver, always keep moving and never let the enemy out of sight. These lessons were Alliance ones, taught to him ever since his first days in Rebel Intelligence. As such, he was not inclined to forget any of them.

At the first sight of the figures cresting the horizon through his quadnocs, Cassian ignored the instinct to fall back. He was surrounded on all sides, with no easily accessible extraction points to fall back to. He knelt down beside the half-buried fallen droid, ignoring the lump that had begun to form in the back of his throat. Kay was gone. He had fallen doing his duty, buying he and Jyn the time they needed to reach the Citadel spire and transmit the plans. But if all went well, Cassian told himself with a smile, the most important part of his old friend would soon be back in his hands once more.

He had sent Jyn a situational update over the com he had reprogrammed prior to his departure, the one he had so very carefully encrypted using his Alliance training. Next, he had used one of the detonation charges on his utility belt as a distraction in an effort to lure the Imperials away from his position while simultaneously prying the deformed carboplast plating off his companion’s damaged head unit. The distraction had worked, and the Stormtroopers had fallen back to investigate the source of the explosions.

Most of them had, at least. 

As he pried through the twisted remains of damaged circuitry in search of his goal, the captain paused, ensuring the Stormtroopers hadn’t enveloped his position. Cassian Andor was a brave man. He had served in countless dangerous missions, risking life and limb in the name of the Rebellion. Even so, a part of him wondered if his efforts were worth the impending risk to his well-being. He could easily abandon Kay and fall back, he reminded himself, in order to reach the rendezvous point with Jyn. 

He chose not to. Kay meant too much to him to simply abandon to the Empire. Besides, Cassian told himself, the droid had downloaded information from a second K-X unit during the initial infiltration of the vault. Perhaps, he thought to himself, that information contained a schematic of the complex that could guide him and Jyn to a more secure location. Perhaps it contained an access code that could be used to access another part of the base, or a transponder that could help establish communications with the Rebellion. The thought of hope within those sparking circuits seemed to lift at least part of the burden from Cassian’s weary mind, and he set his mind to work. 

At approximately two hundred meters, Cassian Andor could hear the voices of a squad of Imperial Stormtroopers. They sounded authoritative, commanding, almost inhuman as they approached, and he could make out the sound of blasters cocking. 

_ “Stop right there! You’re not authorized in this area!” _

With the troopers only one hundred meters away, Captain Cassian Andor bent over his objective, prying free a small metallic object from the remains of the fallen droid. He tucked it away into his utility pouch, making a promise to himself not to let it fall into the hands of the enemy.

At fifty meters, Cassian drew his blaster rifle, crouching defiantly beside the fallen droid. He checked his ammunition, sighing with resignation as he realized he had only taken two spare power packs with him. The troopers drew closer, among them a pair of the same dark-armored ones that had assailed Jyn Erso earlier. Defiantly, he pried the remains of a blaster pistol from the fallen droid’s charred fingers, checked its ammunition, and transferred the weapon’s power cells into his own weapon. Bracing himself against the charred durasteel, he leveled his weapon, taking aim at the lead trooper. He could hear more voices now; more orders being given.

_ “Move right! We’ll flank him from the left!” _

_ “You three stay back. Cover us while we move up.” _

_ “Yes sir.” _

With the troopers only twenty meters away, the emitters of their weapons glowing crimson, Cassian Andor attempted to calculate an impossible scenario in which he somehow managed to return to Jyn Erso alive, along with the object of his search. 

In spite of the odds, he was determined to succeed.


	20. Chapter Sixteen

**Chapter Sixteen**

The moment she stepped out of the shadows, Jyn could smell it. The stink of decay, of charred flesh and blood and rot all mingled together into one. It was everywhere, overpowering the scent of ash and mud and oxidized durasteel, even drowning out the ozone scent of recent blaster fire. Even with the Stormtrooper’s respirator, the stench was overpowering, and she had to force herself not to vomit as she proceeded through the ruins.

She took one long look at the ruined Citadel before her and set to work. A squad of ten Stormtroopers stood sentinel around the ruins, standing atop collapsed piles of rubble, while another squad patrolled the area around a patrol transport. Their coms were silent, and Jyn felt a wave of relief fill her as she realized she had not yet been detected.

Allowing herself to breathe for the moment, Jyn unscrewed the butt-cap of her rifle and slipped a fresh cylinder of Tibanna gas into the chamber. Loading a fresh power-pack into the magazine, she took aim at the nearest Imperial. She dared not move. There were too many Imperials to risk exposing herself, not without Cassian to offer suppressing fire. The vulnerability of her position became more obvious as she scanned the battlefield around her. The Stormtroopers’ searchlights were drawing closer with every step, and if she paused long enough, she could swear she heard the distinct drone of repulsorlifts in the distance, a sure sign of patrolling scout bikes.

Whether she liked it or not, she told herself, she’d have to move eventually.

She peered into the electroscope, taking aim at the first Imperial. He was in range, barely, and she braced herself for the coming fight. Taking a deep breath, she squeezed the trigger, flinching as the recoil of the blaster slammed into her shoulder.

The first perimeter guard didn’t know what hit him. He collapsed helplessly into the mud, seemingly unaware of the shot to the back of his neck that had ended his brief life. His companion noticed, however, and Jyn ducked her head behind cover as a fusillade of blaster fire erupted around her.

Jyn flinched slightly as a spray of blaster fire streaked over her head, only missing due to the E-11’s inaccuracy over long distances. A lucky thing they weren't armed with better weapons, she told herself. Nevertheless, her cover had been compromised, and she sprang into action, clambering out from behind the rubble and racing away at breakneck speed.

She ducked behind a collapsed pillar to dodge another spray of fire and used it to deflect the stormtroopers’ shots as she maneuvered her way towards a collapsed section of wall, simultaneously using the electroscope of her blaster to track the origin of the enemy's fire. Three quick bursts from her own rifle ensured that the Imperials would keep their heads down while she advanced to better cover.

Jyn reached her goal just as a Stormtrooper rounded the corner at a run, receiving a smoking hole in his chest for his trouble. As the man collapsed, his arms and legs sprawled about on the muddy ground, Jyn smiled to herself eagerly as she relieved him of his ammunition. She leapt the remnant of the wall she’d been hiding behind and advanced, blaster tracking to the left and the right.

One of the scout troopers lunged at her from the left when she was looking the other way, not bothering to reach for his blaster at such close quarters. His momentum drove Jyn into the opposite wall with a force that drove the air from her lungs. A punch to the head left her dazed and she could only fight back weakly as the trooper attempted to clasp his hands around her throat.

The Stormtrooper hesitated for a moment. Jyn recognized it as an opening.

She twisted around, applying her elbow to the gap in the Imperial’s armor plates as she slammed him against the wall. Momentum kept Jyn upright as she spun toward a second Stormtrooper, who had moved in to reinforce his companion. Grasping the hilt of her vibroblade, she delivered a bloody slash to the newcomer’s face before twisting the blade around to stab at the man behind her. The tip of the blade wormed its way through the armor plates of the Imperial’s belly, and he staggered back, releasing his hold on her.

His injured companion had a front row seat to the sight of Jyn snapping the trooper’s neck, throwing the body off her, and drawing her sidearm in a smooth motion.

The flash of the pistol’s muzzle was the last thing the unfortunate trooper ever saw. He dropped to the ground, a wisp of smoke billowing from the bolt’s exit wound, and Jyn staggered away from him, blood dripping from the hilt of her blade and rolling over onto her hands in a tide of crimson ichor. Ordinarily, such brutal combat was outside of Jyn’s level of comfort, and if she hadn’t been fighting for her life, she would have found time to be disgusted. But there wasn’t time. The longer she took to meet Cassian at the rendezvous point, the more likely it was that she’d find herself ensnared in that kind of trap again.

Two more Stormtroopers had overheard the commotion and had moved into position, and Jyn shook the thoughts aside as she prepared herself for the next wave. Readying her blade, she pushed herself off the wall and let the momentum of her strike carry her towards her assailants, delivering a violent slash at the platoon leader’s throat. The man collapsed, blood gushing from his jugular, and Jyn swung her body around again to strike at the second Imperial, who had drawn his own combat blade in preparation for the close-quarters nature of the engagement.

A quick burst of fire dropped the remaining Stormtrooper, and the pressure was off for the moment. Jyn noticed a clear path away from her attackers and dashed between the next group of staggering Imperials, unleashing a staggered burst of fire at her assailants as she maneuvered her way between them. The troopers shouted, returning sporadic bursts of fire, but Jyn paid them no heed.

As she stepped forward, her boot crunched down on something. Lowering her gaze, Jyn saw the charred remains of an unfortunate garrison trooper who had been caught in the Death Star's glare. Her stomach heaved, but she forced the bile down. Now was not the time to be caught off-guard. As much as the sight disgusted her, she had to keep moving.

She began to set off again when her eyes began to pick out more blackened bodies. They littered the ground around her, she observed, an entire city’s worth of dead Imperials blasted into charred ruins by their own commanders. Looking at the bodies strewn everywhere, it was almost as if Jyn could feel the pain and fear of their deaths, as though the suffering of the garrison still lingered in the walls of the broken Citadel.

She shook off that thought as something small and metallic landed beside her with a loud clatter.  
  
“What the…”  
  
Before she could finish her sentence, an explosion sent her flying. 

As she stared out into the darkness, looking for Cassian, Jyn Erso shifted her weight to one side, trying to reposition her stiff body. Everything hurt, she was hungry, and her injured side throbbed with a pain she couldn’t begin to describe.

“Kriff it all!” she screamed, clasping her mouth suddenly to mask the sound. She cursed under her breath, muttering several obscenities as her foot, as well as her side, throbbed with pain. Hopefully, she whispered to herself, Cassian heard her cry before the Imperials did.

She glanced down at the ground, using her kyber crystal for light. Sweeping her hands across the ashen ground she felt something firm beneath her. Something firm. Something metallic.

A hatch, she thought to herself. A hatch leading to… somewhere underneath the base.

She felt around, brushing away the ash and dust until her hands found the outline of the entryway. For a minute, she considered opening it. She was weak and badly injured, and the hatch looked heavy, but the promise of safety was a tempting one. Wherever it led, she told herself, it had to be safer than her present location.

“I’ll manage,” she groaned to herself, and took hold of the hatch wheel. The latching mechanism was stiff and somewhat difficult to maneuver, but she managed to force it free. As she unlocked the hatch and lifted it open, she couldn’t help but breathe a sigh of relief. After cutting down another pair of Stormtroopers and replacing her blaster’s magazine, she slung the weapon over her shoulder and continued her work.

The actual entryway to the bunker itself was protected by a pyramid-shaped barrier which was flush with the lip of the hatch she had just opened, presumably a shield which protected the entrance from falling debris. The multitool on her utility belt made quick work of the screws - one to each side of the obstacle. They gleamed as they hit the ground, and Jyn cheered internally at her success. With that out of the way, she wrapped her arms around the open lip of the hatch, bent her knees, and lifted. There was momentary resistance followed by sudden freedom as the cover popped loose. 

Jyn set the structure aside and peered into the pitch-black duct. She patted her belt, found the glow rod, and pulled it free. The outline of a ladder was obvious, but just to be sure, she tossed a flare into the opening, before working her way into the lip of the hatch and securing her feet. After one final check of her surroundings, Jyn inhaled deeply, stuck the light between her teeth, and lowered herself into the shaft. She found a rung with her feet, tested the metal with her weight, and started her descentl. 

The light wavered back and forth across bare metal as Jyn sank into the darkness. She was committed now - and it was literally do or die.

After a long descent, she finally reached the base of the ladder. Jyn looked around, blaster in hand, and stared into the darkness at what appeared to be a small bunker. It had no distinguishing features, save a small computer terminal, a weapons rack containing a small number of E-11 rifles, and a supply locker. 

_ “There she is! Stop her!” _

Before she could fully get her bearings, a spray of blaster fire slammed into the ceramacrete from above her head. Two of the Stormtroopers had apparently spotted her and had commenced fire, and she ducked away into the shadows to avoid detection.

_ “After her!”  _ One of the Stormtroopers ordered, and Jyn crept towards the control console mounted to the wall. She would seal the hatch, she decided, trapping the Imperial inside. A one-on-one battle would be far easier in such confined quarters than a fight against multiple assailants, and she had used similar tactics against Stormtroopers during her time as a Partisan.    
  
She hoped her training would be enough now.


	21. Chapter Seventeen

**Chapter Seventeen** **_  
_ ** **_  
_ ** **_Venator_ ** **Class Star Destroyer** **_Liberator_ ** **_  
_ ** **Headquarters of the Abrion Resistance Network** **  
** **Orbiting Scarif** **  
** **  
** Under Palpatine’s reign, it was a rare sight indeed to see a  _ Venator _ class Star Destroyer.

The Empire had long since retired the  _ Venator _ class, preferring the raw firepower of the  _ Imperial _ and  _ Victory _ class Star Destroyers to the  _ Venator’s _ reliance on starfighters and auxiliary support craft. Though most of these warships had been resigned to oblivion in scrapyards, a small number of them had managed to escape the grasp of the New Order, living on as the central hives for smugglers, criminal syndicates, and, occasionally, the Rebel cell fortunate enough to find a Venator intact enough to survive combat. 

Imperial combat doctrine had long since shifted away from a heavy reliance on starfighters, which the  _ Venator _ had been designed around. Under Tarkin’s doctrine, fear and terror had long since replaced space superiority as the primary objective of warship combat. Unlike a  _ Venator, _ which used its squadrons of fighters and bombers as an extension of its power, an ISD could use its larger size and more potent main battery to project its might independently across an entire system. 

However, the Rebellion had no such qualms or restrictions placed upon its combat doctrine. A large, reliable, and efficient carrier vessel such as a  _ Venator _ made an ideal command-and-control vessel for a fledgling resistance movement, a mobile base from which Alliance starfighters could conduct hit-and-fade operations against Imperial assets.

The  _ Liberator _ was one such vessel. Salvaged from a battalion of former Clone Troopers who had defied Order 66, the vessel had found its way into the hands of the Abrion System’s rebel cell, serving as its headquarters and forward operating base. 

“Ma’am, our sensors detect a vessel of unknown origin approaching our location,” Major Miria Canasau reported uneasily from behind her command display. The slender, curly-haired girl from the Outer Rim punched another command into her primary display, zooming the tactical grid towards a small section of distant space, where a series of red indicator lights flashed in rapid succession. 

“Good eye, Miri,” a cool voice replied, a slight Rodian accent annunciating the syllables. “Can you make out any details? Distance from our location, ETA, anything at all?” From behind Sella’s console, Commander Alik Waska blinked her eyes, adjusting them to the dim light of the refitted Alliance cruiser’s bridge. 

“I’m sorry, Alik,” Miri replied uneasily, suddenly looking up from her display. “These old Republic-model computers aren’t exactly the same grade as the Mon Cal units on an MC-80. They do their job well enough, but they just aren’t powerful enough to make out those kinds of specific data-points while handling this much outside interference.” She pointed at the static streaking the edges of her display. “At any other moment I’d have the detection radius to give you specifics, but with all the interference from the Scarif debris field I can’t confirm anything for certain. There’s just too great a margin of error for me to be sure that my readings are accurate.”

Her commanding officer nodded, placing one hand on her friend’s shoulder reassuringly. Her deep azure eyes swept across the tactical readout, watching as the strange pattern of flashing lights conglomerated into an organized formation.

“So, you’re telling me you don’t have any idea who’s aboard that ship or what they’re doing out here, do you, Lieutenant?” Alik’s voice was flat, the voice of an experienced field commander brooding over her next course of action.

“I don’t have an  _ accurate _ idea, Ma’am,” Miri corrected. “My best guess is that the people aboard that ship are either trying to escape the aftermath of Scarif or they’re a squadron of Imperial fighters, patrolling the region for fleeing survivors. From the way their indicators are all bunched together like that, it’s safe to assume it’s probably the latter.” 

“Very well then, Major,” Alik said, drawing up a chair to sit beside her fellow officer. “Let’s assume for just a moment that your estimation of our situation is correct and these signatures do in fact belong to Imperial starfighters. What would your recommendation be for a course of action?” 

“Honestly, Captain,” Miri gestured to the far side of the tactical overlay. “I’d want to be as far away from Scarif as possible. The presence of Imperial fighters could only mean the Empire is investigating  _ something _ on the surface that escaped the Death Star, and if they find us…” 

She dropped off the thought, but Alik didn’t have to read her lips to know where her sentence was going. A frown swept over her face, and she looked into her old friend’s eyes unconvincingly. “Retreat? After only six days? Our mission isn’t complete here.” 

“ _ Liberator  _ was designed as a fleet carrier during the Clone Wars, Captain,” Miri explained with a concerned expression. “After nineteen years of obsolescence, I wouldn’t expect her to survive any prolonged encounters with modern Imperial warships, especially after the hell her previous owners put her through. We only recently finished restoring the primary hangar bay to full functionality, and with the shields still only at partial strength, we’ve no real ability to protect ourselves from either heavily armored Imperial battleships nor massed waves of enemy starfighters. If the ship were fully armed and equipped, I could believe that we could stand up to an ISD in a firefight, but as we stand now, we’re in no shape to risk entering Imperial-held space. 

“Your point is…?” Alik frowned.

“In short, Commander, we’re outnumbered, outgunned, and in no condition to fight the Imperials if our mission security is somehow compromised. While I hate to be the one to advocate retreat, our mission was reconnaissance. We were to get in, determine the nature of the damage dealt to Scarif by the Death Star, conduct a couple reconnaissance flights, and get out. That’s all General Draven and High Command requested of us, and we’ve completed all of it.” 

“What about that ship your sensors detected, Miri? Are you recommending we simply ignore it?” 

“I’m recommending we don’t risk the  _ Liberator. _ I’d recommend we send Raven Squadron to do a fly-by of the approaching vessel. If their sensors don’t detect anything suspicious, we’ll invite the transport to dock here. Better to place her under our protection than leave her out in the open, if she’s ours.”

“And what if she’s not?” Alik Waska asked cautiously.

“You know Raven Squadron,” Sella laughed. “Always eager for a chance to get at the Imps. If there’s trouble, Della and her boys will see the intruder off.”

***   
Kyle Katarn had heard of the world of Scarif during his time at the Academy, even seen holos, but this was the first time he'd seen it since the Death Star had scoured its surface, and it wasn't the same at all. The planet gleamed like a dull ball bearing far below as the  _ Moldy Crow _ dropped out of hyperspace and into the center of a debris field.

It wasn't much of a planet, he thought, watching it on the visual display. He was well-aware his concentration on the planet stemmed from a need to think about anything except the upcoming rendezvous with Jan’s contacts, but his foul mood had little to do with her astute observation that the Empire had perfectly mastered the art of transforming beautiful, pristine worlds into hellish deathscapes.

The Death Star’s blast had completely blackened one side of the tropical planet, the ash clouds and dust transforming the once azure skies into a muddled, murky sort of gray-green. Even its deep, narrow seas were a shade of the omnipresent gray-green— what little water remained on the surface had been polluted by the blast. All traces of the planet’s lush green foliage had been scoured away, replaced with endless swathes of blackened, blasted oblivion. And it wasn’t just the color of the planet which had been transformed by the destruction, all across the surface seams and fissures had opened in the planet’s crust, creating unsightly cracks and gouges all across the surface.

Kyle gave a grimace of distaste and turned his eyes resolutely to the sight he'd been secretly dreading. An Imperial warship lingered on the far side of the planet, its sub-light engines aglow with bluish-white energy, and he swallowed a bitter-tasting envy mixed with old hatred as he gazed at the devastation which surrounded the planet. It hung there, taunting Kyle’s miniscule transport with its mere presence, and the thought of the men in command of that beautiful vessel made it far, far worse. For the first time in a very long time, Kyle felt a familiar sense of fear creep across the back of his throat.

He couldn’t stomach the thought of another failure. There was little hope of finding anyone alive on Scarif. Not when the Empire possessed such power. If that was how it was going to be, he might as well have taken the Council’s money and fled the system. And yet, Jan had convinced him to stay. Somehow, she had given him a reason to join up with her again and partake in this seemingly impossible mission.

If they were lucky, Kyle told himself, this would be another easy payday. If not, it would end like another Danuta.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” he informed Jan. “Keep the engines hot and stand by on the blaster cannons. If the Imperials spot us, I want to be ready for a quick exit if need be.”

“You’ve got it,” she laughed. “Just like old times, right?”

“Not quite yet,” Kyle replied. “First, we’re going to need those access codes from that contact of yours. What can you tell me about him?”

“General Draven didn’t give me much, if I’m being honest,” Jan reported solemnly. “They’re in charge of the Abrion Sector’s local defenses, and they have some sort of personal connection with me. But that’s all.”

“How typical of the Rebellion to be vague.” Kyle gave his co-pilot a sarcastic gaze, and she shook her head with a grin. “With that I agree,” she said. “Draven never was one to give his agents the clearest of instructions.”

“But did he give us any leads at all? Coordinates, names, a ship we should be looking for?”

“Already on it,” Jan remarked, and slipped a navigation card into the ship’s navi-computer.

“Hopefully those coordinates provided you with a way around that.” He pointed towards the distant outline of the Star Destroyer.

“Strange,” Jan muttered to herself. “My intelligence dossier didn’t mention anything about an Imperial presence in-system. At last report, Vader’s flagship had already left the system in pursuit of  _ Profundity’s _ survivors, and the rest of the Imperial garrison had been destroyed by our fleet. Unless I’m wrong, there shouldn’t be a Star Destroyer over Scarif.”

“You underestimate the Imperials, Jan,” Kyle replied. “If they have an objective, they’ll stop at nothing to complete it. They’re relentless.”

“But what could they be after? The Death Star destroyed everything of value on the surface.”

Kyle shook his head. “The Death Star plans were down there, after all. Who knows what other Imperial engineering projects were also stored in those vaults? It’s only a guess, but I’d say that Destroyer is there to recover any information that wasn’t blown up.”

“So they’re not after the same survivors we are?” Jan asked.

“I told you the Empire was relentless, Jan. I didn’t say they were incompetent. They wouldn’t send an entire Star Destroyer into the system to wipe out a handful of Rebels. If they were worried about that, they wouldn’t have left the planet intact. Imperial commanders aren’t stupid. Whoever is in charge of that battle station wouldn’t dare risk the wrath of the Senate or his superiors.”

She nodded. “So, you’re convinced they’re after the information, then?”

“I’m not convinced of anything just yet. All I know is your contact, whoever he is, had best stay clear of that Star Destroyer… otherwise this might be a really short mission."

The  _ Crow _ lurched suddenly as something hit the side of the hull.

“What the kriff was that?” Jan exclaimed. Kyle frowned, gesturing to the now blaring systems console.

“We’ve got company,” he informed her as a swarm of red markers swept in across the display. “Looks like we’ve got TIE fighters coming in.”

***   
Jan Ors didn’t like thinking about past missions. Experience had taught her that hindsight was a useless thing in the moment of a dangerous operation, and that reliance on training and instinct generally yielded more results than dwelling upon one’s past failures for too long. True, every mission, even a failed one, could teach an agent valuable skills and provide vital field experience. But there was an emotional cost to holding onto the past too long, one which she had witnessed throughout her time as an intelligence agent. This burden had broken many of her fellow agents, and she had long since resolved not to let her guard down lest it overcome her as well.

But now, as she watched the flight of Imperial fighters emerge from the debris field, Jan couldn’t help but compare her present situation to the last ill-fated operation.

On the surface, both the mission to Danuta and Kyle’s present assignment over Scarif were comparable in scope. Both had been ordered by the Rebel Alliance, both were initiated deep behind enemy lines, and both were, for their own reasons, mission-critical to the survival of the Rebellion.

And, she admitted to herself dourly, both seemed to involve impossible odds.

Another alarm blared, and she forced the thought to the back of her mind. Stifling a curse, Jan looked down at the display, watching in dazed horror as a half-dozen TIE fighters emerged from the debris field, their sub-light engines pinpricks of crimson as they drew closer.

She paused to reassess the situation, taking note of the position of the approaching TIE fighters relative to his own craft. From his analysis of the situation, the probability of a successful extraction grew slimmer by the minute. The Imperials held every advantage. Since TIE fighters lacked hyperdrives, they could not have extended this far from Scarif under their own power alone. This meant that the Imps had launched starfighter patrols from their Destroyer, and he swallowed heavily at the implications. The  _ Moldy Crow _ was originally designed as a minimally armed light freighter. While she could easily outmaneuver and defeat one or two TIEs, the vessel had never been designed to engage large numbers of enemy fighters in sustained combat, even with the modifications Jan and the Alliance had made.

Two more fighters, one to either side of the ship, appeared from nowhere. A comm transmission followed. There were no preliminaries -just demands. " _ TIE fighter Alpha One to unidentified freighter. Report the commanding officer's name, number of passengers aboard, cargo, port of origin, and business on Scarif." _

The words had a sing-song quality, as if the pilot had uttered them countless times, which he probably had. Jan felt her heart pound in her chest, reminded herself that such checks were standard, and opened the coms channel. The story had been rehearsed numerous times, and, thanks to General Draven’s scan-docs, she also had the forgeries to back it up.

" _ Moldy Crow _ to  _ Alpha One _ . Roger that . . . My name's Drexel, Jana Drexel, and my co-pilot and I are the only personnel aboard. We were dispatched here from the Danuta security complex, under orders from Director Krennic." She shook her head. This part wasn’t Draven’s doing, and she cringed at how blatantly obvious her cover story sounded.

_ “It sounded better in your head, Jan,” _ the agent muttered to herself.  _ “Draven tried to tell you as much before you went to retrieve Kyle.” _

“ _ Moldy Crow _ , are you aware that the Scarif garrison has been destroyed by rebel insurgents and is no longer operational?” The Imperial’s voice sounded unconvinced.

“I copy that. We were rerouted from the Danuta security complex, under direct orders from Director Krennic to proceed at all haste to Scarif. I’d hate to disappoint him.”

“Director Krennic was killed by the rebels,  _ Moldy Crow _ ,” the TIE pilot scoffed. “Scarif’s orbit has been declared a no-fly zone under direct orders from Governor Tarkin.”

Jan leaned back in her seat, propping her feet onto the console with a smirk. “On what grounds?” We’ve always been permitted to stop at the complex for a quick respite from the dangers of hyperspace travel.”

“A team from the Star Destroyer  _ Avenger is _ conducting a recovery operation on the surface. The planet airspace has been declared off-limits until the operation is complete. Return to Danuta immediately.”

Jan stammered for a moment, trying to keep her nerves from showing. She could feel herself swear; her hands trembled over the coms switch as she spoke. Behind her, Kyle whispered reassuring words into her ear. “Negative. We sustained damage from a rebel ambush en route to Scarif, and we’re leaking fuel. I doubt we’d make it back to Danuta intact.”

There was a pause, presumably while the TIE pilot conducted scans. After a few moments, the comm chimed again.

“My sensors don’t detect any fuel leak, _ Crow _ . Are you quite sure?”

“We were certainly hit by my reckoning, Sir. Our shields were badly compromised by the rebel attack, and we’d rather not risk losing our cargo.” She motioned to Kyle, who triggered the emergency alarms manually. It was a local trick; one he had learned during his flight from Imperial patrols all those years ago. If it went well, it would fool the Imperial scanners into detecting a problem with the  _ Crow _ . If it didn’t work… well, Jan didn’t want to think about that.

“What is the nature of your cargo?” the Imperial asked with a confused glance.

“We’re carrying a shipment of arms and munitions for the surface team,” Jan replied. “Surely your security detail would appreciate extra protection as they undergo their security sweeps of the complex? Wouldn’t want any more rebel incursions ruining your fun down there.” She smirked at the words “rebel incursions,” and Kyle couldn’t help but emulate her.

“I have my orders,  _ Moldy Crow,” _ the Imperial’s gruff voice resounded over the comms channel. “Power down your engines while we send a shuttle to investigate your fuel leak. We wouldn’t want your cargo to be compromised before it reaches the surface.”    
  
“That won’t be necessary,” Jan replied.    
  
The TIE pilot remained insistent. “Sorry Ma’am, but orders are orders. Now power down your engines and prepare for inspection.”   
  
“I’ll see you in hell first.” Jan ended the transmission before the astonished Imperial could reply.   
  
**VSD** **_Liberator_ ** **_  
_ ** **_  
_ ** “Ma’am, we’ve got multiple contacts headed for that transport,” Miri Camasu observed from her sensor station. “They register as Imperial fighters. Should I order Raven Squadron to intercept?”

“Affirmative, Major,” Alik Waska replied quietly. Stagger our launch to minimize the chance of that Destroyer detecting us, and order Della to engage all hostile craft.”

“What about the inspection of the freighter?” Miri inquired.

“Della and her squadron can conduct the inspection after we’ve seen off those TIE Fighters. With the rate they’re gaining on that freighter, I doubt they’re acting as her escort.”

“Commander!” one of the junior sensor technicians interrupted.

“Yes? What is it?”

The astonished sensor officer gestured towards the primary tactical display. “It’s the freighter, Ma’am. It’s breaking away from the fighters… and turning to engage them.”

Alik shook her head. “Whoever is piloting that freighter is either really brave… or really stupid. Either way, they aren’t going to get far against an Imperial squadron on their own. Get Della’s fighters out there immediately. Let’s see if we can’t buy our new contact some time.”   
***

Della Daivik considered herself a decent pilot.    
  
As a girl, she had dreamed of the distant stars. She had grown up hearing stories of the Republic’s clone fighter pilots, and from an early age had set her sights upon the stars. She had even, much to her parents’ dismay, expressed interest in the possibility of flying a starfighter of her own, a proposition    
which was quickly and quietly dismissed. 

Everything changed, however, when the Empire came to Oktaro.  
  
Forced to flee her homeworld to escape Imperial occupation, Della eventually found herself among the stars, though the experience of space travel was not how she had first imagined it as a child. The vastness of space was both thrilling and terrifying, and she learned a great deal during her two years spent aboard a refugee cruiser.   
  
Now, as she sat in the cockpit of her X-Wing, leading a squadron of Alliance fighters into battle, she couldn’t help but think of the promise the Rebels had made to her, the promise to liberate Oktaro and help her find her brother. They hadn’t acted on that promise just yet, but she still held out hope that her journeys across the galaxy would eventually lead her home again, someday.  
  
But for now, her mission was here, and she had other things to worry about.  
  
“Raven Leader to Raven Squadron. All wings report in,” she said over the comm.   
  
“Raven Two, standing by.” Della recognized the voice of Mekaro Dravska, the Sullustan veteran who had taught her to pilot her T-65. It had genuinely surprised her when Commander Waska had appointed her command of Raven Squadron (following the operation which had secured the _Liberator_ in the cell’s hands), but Drav hadn’t been shocked at all. Of all the pilots in her formation, he alone had expressed his congratulations aloud; while the rest had simply applauded in silence.  
  
“Raven Three, standing by.” That was Carra Dreyfuss, the hot-shot new recruit the cell had liberated from an Imperial prison. She was reckless and impulsive, but her clever flying and incredible accuracy in the cockpit more than made up for her hot-headed flying… most of the time.  
  
“Raven Four, standing by.” Della didn’t recall the name of this pilot, but she remembered a little bit about them. Her brief encounter with the Twi’Lek after Sam Charsky’s death had been a solemn one, but the look in her amber eyes had been a sympathetic one. She made a mental note to ask the pilot’s name after they got back to the hangar.   
  
“Raven Five, standing by,” replied the last pilot in the flight. Darvin Pelta, the quiet rookie from Tatooine, Della recognized. A moisture farmer’s son, Pelta rarely spoke about his past, but he more than made up for his silence with his abilities in the cockpit.  
  
“Set S-foils in attack-position,” she ordered. “That transport’s taking some heavy fire out there. Let’s try and get those TIEs off their back.”   
  
“I can hardly wait,” Dreyfuss replied eagerly. “Let’s turn those Imps into Bantha fodder, shall we?”  
  
“Cut the chatter, Raven Three,” Della warned. “The idea is to keep them from knowing we’re coming.”  
  
“I’ll take the leader. Raven Two, cover me. Raven Three and Four, engage those TIE fighters attacking the transport’s flanks. Raven Five, stick close to my six and follow my lead. This is your [first](https://www.definitions.net/definition/first) time up. Don't try to beat the Imps all by yourself..”   
  
”Yes, ma’am.”   
  
Della nodded. “In that case, let’s go to work, ladies and gentlemen. Keep your eyes peeled and watch for reinforcements. Watch each other’s backs out there, but most important of all, keep that transport safe.”

“Copy, Raven Leader.”  
  
Della adjusted her flight path, maneuvering her X-Wing towards the damaged freighter. She couldn’t identify the vessel’s make from this distance, but she knew a damaged starship when she saw one. And, judging from the damage it had already sustained, she couldn’t imagine it could last much longer.   
  
She accelerated her fighter to attack speed, maneuvering herself into position. Her targeting computer chimed as her weapons locked onto the TIE fighter, and squeezed the trigger. She let out a whoop of exultation as the Imperial fighter burst into flames, soaring past the debris field.   
  
“Nice shot, Ma’am!” Pelta cheered over the comlink. “You make it look easy.”  
  
“All in a day’s work, Darvin,” she chuckled. “But there’s more of them where that one came from. Stay alert.”  
  
***  
“Watch yourself, Raven Three! You’ve got two TIEs on your tail! Four and seven! Hold tight, I’ll be right there!”  
  
“I can shake ‘em!” she heard Carra say. Her voice was shaky, and she could hear the scream of the TIE fighters draw closer to her companion’s craft. As she attempted to maneuver her own fighter into a firing position, Della could only watch in horror as the TIE pilot commenced fire. Desperately, she attempted to fire upon one of Carra’s pursuers, but by the time her weapons locked on, it was already too late.  
***  
Kyle Katarn sat quietly in the cockpit of the _Moldy Crow,_ watching as the debris from the Battle of Scarif drifted around his ship. He'd run out of curses ten minutes before; now he simply sat and glared at his targeting display while he attempted to lock onto a TIE fighter with the freighter’s laser cannons.  
  
The mission to Scarif had seemed like a reasonable plan when he was first briefed for it. A few too many ruffles and flourishes, perhaps, but reasonable. There'd been no special reason why they had to use his ship for it, yet no one had listened when he suggested they use a proper Alliance warship for the operation. The Council had argued for the _Crow_ 's higher acceleration levels and hyper speed "just in case," and the additional modifications the Alliance had made to his old vessel since the flight to Danuta had been all too convincing. And, he supposed, if things had gone as planned, it wouldn't really have mattered in the long run. Only the idiots who'd orchestrated the operation should have realized it would never work from the moment an Imperial capital ship had first been detected by the Alliance’s in-system contacts. The mission was at best a desperate gamble, and he'd told Senator Mothma and General Draven as much.

From the beginning, the mission to Scarif had relied on deception, diversion, and the Empire’s single-minded efforts to recover from the destruction caused by the Death Star. Now it was all blowing up in their faces. What should have been a neat, clean sucker punch had turned into a fiasco which might yet become outright disaster, in large part because his ship, in spite of its speed, maneuverability, and heavy modifications, had never been designed for any sort of military operations, particularly those which involved eluding large numbers of heavily armed Imperial fighters.

It was a cruel fate, Kyle thought as he ground his teeth together. General Draven and the rest of the Alliance High Command was as stupid as they were blind. They had sent him and Jan, alone and unsupported, into the heart of Imperial-occupied territory, armed with nothing but a lightly equipped freighter, his wits, and a handful of Rebel engineers and technicians to help Jan micro-manage her numerous modifications to the  _ Crow’s  _ sub-systems. 

So here he was, eluding a squadron of Imperial starfighters in the middle of a debris field, his very flight confirming the Imperial captain's every suspicion, while every hope for survival grew slimmer in his wake. 

Yet he had no choice now. Jan had used her friendship with him to arrange his meeting with the Rebellion, and she had managed to persuade him into undertaking this suicidal venture. Once again, he could not help but compare his present situation to the fiasco which had been Danuta. In both situations, the Alliance had deemed it vital to send Kyle in alone, under-supported, and poorly equipped to execute his objectives effectively. .

Inhaling slowly, Kyle sat back in his chair, locked onto a TIE, squeezed the trigger while he prayed the X-Wing pilots were enough to even the odds.   
***   
Lieutenant Carra Dreyfuss screamed aloud as the engines gave way, and screamed even louder as her fighter spiraled erratically, in a desperate attempt to evade her pursuer. Flames lapped at the consoles around her, and she watched his control panels flicker and fade around the cockpit. The X-Wing’s shields were compromised. Her weapons systems and engines had been taken off-line by the Imperial’s onslaught, and the pair of TIEs on her six-o’clock weren’t about to let up the pressure. She had to act, and act quickly, if she was going to make it out of this one alive. 

There was only one thing left for her to do in this situation. She inhaled deeply, jerking her control column hard to the right. For a moment, she wondered if the X-Wing would respond. The controls were sluggish, and she struggled to remain conscious as the cockpit began to fill with smoke. From the blaring alarms, she didn’t have much time. Her ship’s fuel lines were compromised. It would detonate at any moment, and if she was going to have even the slightest chance of getting out of this battle alive, she would have to think fast. 

Panic turned to instinct once more, and Carra flipped a control on the console, breathing a sigh of relief as the canopy of her stricken X-Wing blasted clear of her vision. Flames lapped at her feet, and the terror in the back of her throat was overwhelming as she forced her helmet visor closed. But she checked herself. Now wasn’t the time to panic. Now was the time to act, the time to commit to action.

Pressing another switch on the stricken starfighter’s cockpit console, she inhaled deeply, and waited for the sudden blast which would clear her from her derelict starfighter.   
  
The blast never came. The Imperials had disabled the ejection system.  _ Karabast _ . There was no possibility of escape for her now.

As the remains of her X-Wing disintegrated around her, Carra Dreyfuss thought of her family, of her friends on Alderaan. She thought of her comrades, who would surely miss her. And she thought of the pilot of the transport she was defending. Mostly, though, she thought of Rogue One.    
  
When the end finally came, she died in peace.   



	22. Chapter Eighteen

**Chapter Eighteen**   
After the fiasco over Danuta, Jan Ors had modified the  _ Moldy Crow _ to withstand the firepower of most starfighters, along with the firepower most commonly carried by pirates and light Imperial warships. However, while the HWK-series of freighters were roomy and designed with modular components intended to support numerous upgrades, Corellian Engineering had never intended for even an upgraded freighter to withstand repeated fire from an Imperial fighter squadron. Not even the most sophisticated light shielding possessed by the Rebel Alliance could hope to withstand the sheer volume of fire for too long, and Jan had operated under the assumption that the maneuverability and speed of the  _ Crow  _ would be enough to avoid most Imperial entanglements.

Unfortunately, speed and cunning couldn’t save the old ship this time. 

The light freighter shuddered under the weight of the fusillade as her shields slowly began to fail. Stilettos of bright green turbolaser fire stabbed deep into the  _ Crow’s _ lightly-armored hull. And then, a sliver of a second later, the  _ Crow _ ’s primary guidance systems went offline, and Jan cursed aloud as the Crow spiraled out of control.

The brunt of the Imperials’ fire streaked below her as she plummeted forward, not the parallel frontal assault from which nothing could have saved her, but a savage eruption of plasma spumed up beneath her ventral hull through the vacuum of space. The remains of her shield generators howled in protest as the hail of heavy weapons plasma collided against her defenses, but they held—barely—and the _ Crow _ heaved and buckled in protest as she vainly attempted to outmaneuver the rapids of destruction.

_ “Karabast!” _

Jan screamed as she was hurled from her seat by the suddenness of the Imperial onslaught. The concussion slammed her into and through a half-fused bank of circuit-breakers, scattering it in an explosion of debris. She bounced back, arms flailing about in a wild clutch for any anchorage, and a terrible, bubbling shriek filled her ears. She caught the heat-slagged edge where cutters had slashed away a buckled access panel, jerking her body to a brutal halt. 

The unfortunate Bothan electronics officer who had been attending to a console behind her, however, was not so lucky. The wreckage thrust out from the bulkhead behind him, centimeters away from impaling Jan herself, and the helpless Bothan writhed upon the jutting spike of durasteel with the ferocity of a Sarlacc’s flailing tendrils while his ear-piercing cry of agony echoed on and on across the engineering bay, even as blood and internal organs spilled from the gaping wound and pooled upon the deck beneath him. Jan stumbled to her feet as she crawled her way back to the cockpit, wiping the unfortunate tech’s blood from where it had splattered across her face. She refused to look away. 

The Bothan hung there for a moment, his body twisting about in a bloody spasm of pain as his muscles convulsed in their final throes. After a moment or so, his ghastly sounds sobbed into silence as his arms ceased their movement. He hung on the wreckage, lifeless and unmoving. Jan glanced back at the destruction, petrified by shock and nausea, unable to make herself look away from the twisted wreckage of the ship she had so carefully modified and the unnamed technician whose role in the liberation of Jyn Erso would never be known.

Slowly, Jan forced her attention away from the grisly scene of horror and stumbled back towards her command console. There would be time to mourn the fallen later, after she and Kyle escaped this battle. For now, casualty or not, she still had work to do.

She clutched at the arms of the pilots’ chair, head snapping savagely back as the remains of the  _ Moldy Crow  _ jerked about, dodging crimson and green laser blasts alike as the engagement spiralled out of control into a full-on furball. Fresh damage signals shrilled from every console of the damaged freighter, and she shook her head, fighting off her blurred vision and confusion of the sudden concussion.

In spite of the damage, she forced herself to look at the primary command display. In spite of the TIE squadron’s best efforts, the  _ Crow’s _ shields had held, for now. But as she surveyed the damage control computer, her relief turned to agony as she realized just how many other systems weren’t nearly as fortunate.

"Direct hit on the hyperdrive, Kyle," she reported in a voice of raw, dull anguish. Kyle blinked as he turned to look at her stricken face over the coms display, his own face shocked and white, and tears gleamed in his eyes. "It's gone. By the Makers, most of the engineering team Yavin gave us went with it, too."

"Understood, Jan." The raw sound in Kyle's voice startled him. It was too calm, too detached. Upgrades or not, they were murdering the  _ Crow _ by matching it against the more maneuverable Imperials. Kyle seemed aware he was losing the  _ Crow _ ... just as he seemed aware that Jan wouldn't—couldn't—break off.    
  
She wanted to say something else, to share in his pain and loss, but the words wouldn't come, and she turned her attention back towards the weapons console as she armed the concussion tubes and squeezed the trigger mounted beneath the control column.

A concussion missile spat from the battered _ Crow _ , but only one, and a warning buzzer snarled. Jan jerked at the sound and hit a system-test button. The missile tube failed to respond, and she heard Kyle curse under his breath. His shoulders clenched as she turned to him, motioning towards the warning in question.

"Looks like one of our missile tubes is down, Kyle. I can repair it, but I’ll have to reach Engineering to conduct the repairs, and that will take some time. Until then I’m afraid we're down to one tube."

“Acknowledged. Give me a diagnostic as soon as you can. And switch as much power as you can to what’s left of our cannons. Those X-Wings are good, but they’re not getting all the fun to themselves.”   
***   
Captain Della Daissik winced as Carra Deryfuss’s fighter exploded in a brilliant ball of scarlet fire, but she forced herself to keep her mind on the present as she swung her fighter around, angling towards another TIE fighter. She wove and twisted as the Imperial starfighter’s guns fired wildly into the void. Occasionally her fighter jerked as a laser blast hit her fighter’s shields. All sorts of warning alarms were flashing and beeping, but she did her best to ignore them as she maneuvered into position for a targeting lock.

“There’s just too many! I need he- “Raven Four’s transmission was cut short by a bone chilling scream and then static.

“This is Raven Two! I need help! They got Garret! Eyes are coming at me from all angles!” Another voice cut across the commlink, filled with pure panic.

“This is Raven Leader. I’m on my way.” Della’s fighter broke hard to port, and she signaled for Pelta to form up behind her.

As she drew closer to the crippled freighter, Della could see three fighters chasing Dravska’s X-Wing. The leader was closing in; it would be only a second until the Imp got a target lock and dealt a critical blow to his fighter’s systems. Della didn’t have a lock either, but she needed to get the TIEs to break off Dravska’s tail. She adjusted her cannons to dual-fire mode and adjusted her flight path before firing a barrage across the lead TIE’s field of view.

The lead fighter pulled up hard and the Imp took off after it. His two wingmen came around and shot straight at her craft. She muttered a long string of expletives under her breath as she dove hard and rolled. The TIE fighters’ green bolts missed her, but now both of them were in perfect position to get on Della’s tail. She adjusted her shields to double power to the rear and then her fighter was shaken by a few stray bolts flaring off the shields.

“R-9, on my mark, reverse all the thrusters!” Della prepared herself to kill the main engines. “Now!”

The main engines shut down, and all the landing and maneuvering thrusters engaged at once. The X-Wing slowed itself and went into a clockwise spin, sending Della flying forward in her seat until the straps holding her down locked up and she slammed back. She tried not to notice how twisted her stomach was as she reignited the engines and leveled out as the two TIE fighters rocketed past her. As the Imperials shot past, Della accelerated to full-throttle and took off in pursuit. She quickly got a target lock and vaporized the first TIE with a proton torpedo before moving into gun range to take out the second.

***   
Alik Waska peered at the  _ Liberator’s _ command display in disbelief. The initial patrol of TIE fighters, joined by a flight of TIE bombers, had pounded at the unidentified freighter for almost thirty minutes, hit her at least half a dozen times, and it still continued on its present course. Whoever was flying that ship certainly had courage… either that, or he was a more inept pilot than she initially presumed.

Sweat beaded across her forehead, and she wiped at it irritably. The TIE pilots held every advantage: speed, maneuverability, numbers. They had already reduced the freighter to a wreck— whoever commanded that vessel had to be some kind of wizard just to hold it together, much less go on shooting at them! Part of Alik longed to drop the  _ Liberator  _ out of the debris field, finish off the Imperials, and get the hell away to safety, but the threat of the Imperial’s capital ship still lingered in the distance. Risking her starfighters was already a questionable enough decision, but revealing the cell’s capital ship would be far too great a risk to the cell as a whole to even consider.

Alik cocked her head, eyes narrowed as she rubbed her chin in speculation. The crippled freighter was still engaging the Imperials, yes, but she was approaching from a linear trajectory, barely making an effort to dodge the TIE fighters’ arcs of fire. Which didn't make any sense at all. HWK series vessels were renowned for their speed and had been known to outmaneuver entire squadrons of Imperial starfighters. Why wasn't the freighter’s captain taking advantage of his vessel’s superior maneuverability? With his ship’s superior thrusters, he could dodge the Imperials’ fire, pouring in laser and missile fire into the approaching starfighters as he crossed, and hit the TIEs with  _ more _ damage than they were firing at him, damn it!

Unless ... Unless the TIEs had somehow hurt the Rebel even worse than she knew? Maybe _that_ was why he was still desperately gunning for the relative safety of the debris field. Had the Imps struck their adversary further aft than she'd thought? Had one of the TIE bombers somehow crippled the freighter by damaging a critical system, such as her weapons systems and hyperdrive? It was a possibility. Perhaps even a probability, given the way the freighter’s forward rate of fire had dropped. If the freighter’s captain _hadn't_ lost his hyperdrive systems, then he damned well ought to be using it to flee from the system instead of lunging doggedly forward through the Imps’ fighters like a punch-drunk fighter while she pounded his ship into oblivion!

And if that was true, then there was a chance he might—

A thought crossed her mind, and she gestured to Miri. “Put us onto an intercept course, Major. And prepare a tractor beam. If the Imperials want this freighter so badly, they’ll have to take her away from us.”

***   
The Imp was a skilled pilot, Della could give him that. Even as she attempted to lock onto his fighter’s signature, he weaved and juked his fighter about, never remaining in a straight line for too long, but Della suspected it was out of sheer panic rather than skill based on how erratic the maneuvers were. The TIE pilot started spinning in his attempt at evasion, and she matched his rotation as she pulled the triggers and flew through the fireball created by the TIE’s explosion. 

“Thanks Raven Leader, I owe you one!” A grateful Dravska’s voice came over Della’s comlink.

“It’s not over yet, Raven Two.” A stream of green shots almost scorched her cockpit, and she winced slightly as she forced her fighter into a dive to evade the Imperial’s fire.

“Copy that Del, watch your tail.”

Della was confused for a moment after Dravska called her by her nickname, but she quickly went back to trying to shake off the fighter pursuing her. She broke hard to port to avoid a piece of metal debris, which gave the fighter chasing her a good shot at her tail. The shield was overwhelmed, but the only damage done was to her X-Wing’s starboard S-foil actuators, blaster power conduits, and repulsorlifts. Behind her, R-9 wailed and did his best to limit the damage.

“Raven Leader, are you alright?” Dravska’s voice came in clearly.

“I’m down half my guns and I’ll have a rough landing but I’m fine.” Della led the TIE around the stern of the damaged freighter and through the blazing ion trail made by its engines. The X-Wing’s shields protected Della from the blast, but the unshielded TIE’s vertical panels burned up and the cockpit ball went spinning off into space.

“This is Raven Leader,” Della said, as she brought her fighter out of the spin. “Looks like a job well done. That Star Destroyer might not take too kindly to us intercepting its fighters, however, so stay alert. Get alongside that freighter and escort her home.”

“Copy, Raven Leader.”    
  
***   
The  _ Crow _ lurched abruptly as yet another burst of Imperial laser fire cut into her systems. Kyle cursed, spitting across the cockpit. Under the circumstances, he told himself, she was probably far too occupied to take umbrage with his sudden frustration.

Another alarm howled through the cockpit, and he forced himself to glance down at the readout, which blared red where the hull had been heavily damaged. The shields were barely functional, down to a mere twenty percent of their maximum capacity, and he cursed once more as he surveyed the damage. Jan was correct. The port concussion missile launcher was permanently off-line, along with the dorsal turret and three of his laser cannons. Large portions of the hull had been opened into space, and a large section of one of his engine nacelles had been blasted away by the pair of proton torpedoes which had managed to make contact.

He had chosen this course. He had elected, under his own volition, to engage the enemy. And, while he understood the peril he had just chosen, he also knew that the Imperials couldn’t sustain their pursuit forever.

Then again, neither could he.

“Ors to Katarn!” Jan’s voice echoed over the com.

“What is it, Jan?”

“We’ve got company. Another contact, bearing three-seven-four.”

“More Imperials?” Kyle moaned

“I don’t think so, Kyle. I’m reading… You’re not going to believe this, but it’s a Rebel signature!”   
***   
Adrenaline from the confrontation still flared through Kyle Katarn’s blood as he surveyed the  _ Crow’s  _ systems displays. The immediacy and suddenness of battle had helped carry him to this point, but the fighting had ended now. Now that the battle was over, he had time to breathe again, and that meant time to survey the remains of his beloved ship. 

Now, he sat in silence as the crippled Imperial Star Destroyer limped away from his own vessel, its hull aglow from a dozen fires and its hull plating mangled from the sudden ambush launched against it. In a way, the arrival of the Rebel vessel had been timely, for his own ship had barely managed to escape the fury of the Imperial onslaught in a survivable state. 

The news currently displayed on the  _ Crow’s  _ readouts, however, was not good. 

The remains of Kyle’s beloved freighter floated amidst the wreckage, her hull broken and shattered, like a toy stepped on by some careless child. The fractured remnants of what had once been the port engine nacelle drifted past the viewport, mangled and broken amidst the ruins of the other participants of the Battle of Scarif, while bits of hull plating and other components surrounded her, a trail of destruction that spoke of the brutality of the battle which had just taken place.

He reached for his comlink, adjusted it to the Alliance frequency, and spoke into the mouthpiece, his usually calm voice now mingled with a frantic sense of urgency.

“This is Agent Kyle Katarn, of the Rebel Alliance starship  _ Moldy Crow.  _ We require immediate assistance,” he stammered. 

“This is the Star Destroyer  _ Liberator,  _ of Abrion Sector Defense Command _.  _ We hear your hail, Commander Katarn,” the woman commanding the shuttlecraft responded after a few moments. “Glad to see you made it out of that encounter in one piece. Is everything alright?” 

“Apart from the fact Jan and I are only flying half of the ship we started with, I think we’re fine. Were it not for your pilots saving our asses, we’d be dead back there. Give them our regards.”   
  
“You can do that yourself, Agent. You have permission to land.”   
  
“What part of “I only have half a ship” do you not understand?” He broke off the sarcastic remark. “Our hyperdrive was critically damaged, and I don’t want to risk any more of your personnel.”

“Copy that,  _ Moldy Crow _ . We have you in our tractor beam. A shuttle will be arriving shortly to evacuate your ship,” the pilot said over the com. “Be ready.”   
**  
**


	23. Chapter Nineteen

**Chapter Nineteen**   
The cold of the hangar’s interior bit at Jan Ors’ cheeks as she glanced around the docking bay of the former Republic Star Destroyer. The void of space drifted above her head, and shelter and warmth waited just inside the hatch which loomed before her, yet she still couldn’t seem to bring herself to relax. 

She’d come here aboard the partisans’ assault craft, escorted by a pair of the Abrion rebels who had volunteered to escort her aboard their command vessel. Jan had been reluctant to leave Kyle and the  _ Crow _ behind in the hangar, at least for the moment, but the rebels had been insistent about the specificity of their orders: her contact desired to meet with her alone at first, in order to determine her intentions and establish the reasons for their presence in the system. Once they could be assured of her loyalties, she and Kyle would be granted access to the rest of the ship. Jan understood their caution. The tide of battle kept shifting throughout the system, meaning the whole Abrion cell was more hypervigilant than usual.

Why was she hesitating? All intelligence thus far suggested her contact was trustworthy, and her personal experience with the Abrion cell all but confirmed that statement as fact. After all, the Abrion cell’s vessel bore the insignia of the Alliance starbird. Its hangars were filled with Alliance starfighters, its personnel wore Alliance uniforms and used Alliance jargon and code-words. Everything around her seemed to lead to the conclusion that the people around her were connected to the Rebellion… and yet, she couldn’t help but feel uneasy. __

_ What if my contact says no?  _ a part of her asked with a feeling of dread.  _ What if the mission doesn’t go according to plan? _ _ Without the Crow, we’re trapped here. _

She shook the doubts out of her head, then pounded her fist against the hatchway. For a moment, she expected her escorts to attempt to restrain her, but they did not, instead gesturing to her to knock again. 

Reassured, Jan rapped her knuckles against the durasteel. When there was no response, she turned back to the taller of the two soldiers, who keyed the hatch open with a simple command code. The sounds of the crowded hangar behind her resonated through the ship, only growing quiet when the hatch slid closed, and everything fell uncomfortably silent. 

The former ready room of the venerable Republic ship loomed in front of her, but the thick, dirty viewports, rusted, jury-rigged panels and exposed wiring made it seem darker and colder than it should’ve been. Still, she was grateful for the shelter from the unforgiving stares the other Abrion rebels had given her, and for the warmth that the sealed-off briefing room offered over the relatively exposed hangar. 

Jan took a few steps forward before an armed older man wearing an officer’s uniform -- and some form of battle armor she didn’t recognize -- startled her. He clearly hadn’t wanted to be seen. 

“The Starbird flies home to its nest,” Jan stated, repeating the code-phrase from her briefing dossier. It was an unusual statement, stranger than most she had used in the past, but she was a Fulcrum agent. She had grown used to the unfamiliar becoming a routine part of her missions.    
  
“But only after midnight,” came the reply. Jan paused, glancing around as she attempted to trace the speaker’s location in her mind.

A glance to the left revealed her whereabouts soon enough. Hunched over one of the control panels, a young woman was crouched behind an access panel, making adjustments to one of the plasma conduits. At the sight of Jan, she drew her sidearm, leveling it cautiously as she observed her movements behind a pair of hazel eyes. 

The older soldier beside her dusted a fleck of dust from the pauldron of his armor “You can’t be too careful these days, Major.” 

The young woman— presumably the vessel’s commander— gave up and lowered her blaster. “Major Miria Camasau, rebel starship  _ Liberator. _ And you are?” she sighed.

“I’m Jan Strange, Rebel Intelligence. I’m here for some information—” Jan explained, using the codename she always used while under cover. She stopped, however, when the soldier who had greeted her brushed past her into another room. Jan shook off her irritation and followed them, flanked closely by the two guards. “I was  _ saying  _ I need information regarding the Battle of Scarif, and I was told you’re the one who can get it for me.” 

“I hate to say it, but intelligence won’t come cheap, commander.” Major Camasau finished attending to the conduit and rose, holstering her weapon. 

“I’ve brought credits,” Jan offered. 

“The  _ right  _ sort of intelligence costs a lot more than you’ve brought here,” Camasu replied, adjusting another conduit with her multi-tool and paying little heed to her visitor.  _ So, we’re playing this game,  _ Jan thought to herself. As an intelligence agent, she’d dealt with people more difficult than this. Surely these Abrion Rebels couldn’t be  _ this  _ cryptic all the time. 

“You’ll get your payment, I assure you.” She stepped closer, looking over the Major’s handiwork. The other officer who accompanied her was sitting with Jan’s escorts with a look of interest, almost amused at the exchange. 

“What assurance do I have of that?” Camasu asked.

“Before this mission, I helped to coordinate mercenary operations with the Alliance,” Jan said. “Before that I helped coordinate the raid on the Imperial installation on Danuta.” 

Camasu took off her helmet to hang near the entry hatch. “Danuta. That’s a long way from here.” 

Jan’s patience was draining fast. “I  _ know,  _ I came all the way from Yavin.” 

For the first time since she walked in, the Major stopped moving and actually looked her in the eye. 

“You came all the way here? From Yavin?” With her helmet off and hair a mess, Jan supposed she could’ve been attractive, if it weren’t for that permanent scowl on her face. She stepped closer, and those hazel eyes narrowed. “It’s not often we have the pleasure of speaking to Core-Worlders. Until recently, we hadn’t known that there was a larger rebellion. Who are you running from?” 

Jan cocked her head. “Running from?”

Camasu gestured out the viewport, towards the outline of an Imperial Star Destroyer lingering just outside of visual range. “We’ve been hiding from them for weeks now. I was merely wondering if you and your crew had also encountered them.”

“In that we’ve been fortunate. Though, in a way you could say we are running  _ to  _ someone.” 

“Who?” 

Jan shook her head. This wasn’t supposed to get personal. But she couldn’t stop herself from continuing, 

“I don’t know. All I know is that they were my contact, designated  _ Fulcrum-Five Alpha _ . I was supposed to rendezvous with them here.”

She was right. The shift in Camasu’s expression was worth the wait and it  _ did  _ soften her features, but it wasn’t genuine. She decided to reserve her decision to trust her and the other Abrion rebels, for the time being at least. 

One of the sentries muttered something to his companion and both men laughed. Jan’s anger flared up. 

“I’m  _ not  _ crazy!” she shoved at the nearest of her escorts. She felt herself acknowledge a bit of satisfaction as the trooper stumbled away from her. The force of it felt good under her palms. The rebel was still grinning as he regained his balance, but he kept his distance and reached for the blaster rifle slung by his side. 

“Why were you all waiting for me?” Jan demanded. 

The older commander who had accompanied Camasu spoke up from the other side of the room. “We were hoping you were someone else. Someone who may not even be alive.” 

She was suddenly aware of where exactly in the Rebel ship she was standing. Dust layered everything in sight. The space held fragments of the star destroyer’s past—, Faded holographic displays, weapons racks and rows of faded armor— but they were unidentifiable underneath the years of neglect. Perhaps this place was as ancient as she thought it was. 

“I think I’ve been here before,” she muttered, and she was surprised they heard her. Sometimes her lack of a past betrayed her. She knew opening up to this unknown cell of rebels would only bring ridicule, but she was so overwhelmed by the random memory she couldn’t help spilling more irrelevant details. 

Jan collapsed in the chair the older officer had pulled out for her. He nodded to Camasu to get her some food. The Major cocked her head, as if questioning the veteran’s very right to give her orders, but eventually she complied. 

Jan’s stomach gurgled. She hadn’t eaten since the  _ Crow _ arrived in-system. 

“You seem to be a trustworthy officer,” she said to the older soldier, “even if your friend is not.” 

“Officer?” the veteran parroted, and Jan finally recognized the make and model of his equipment. He was wearing a faded set of phase-2 Clone armor, its plating scarred and battered from years of battle. Jan decided she could trust him, at least for the moment. “Life hasn’t been easy for me or my brothers, for any of us, really.” 

“Life hasn’t been easy for  _ anyone,”  _ Jan spat back. Hardship didn’t excuse cruelty. She felt instinct reach for the safety of her blaster. She knew clone troopers, and she was well aware of how they had betrayed the Jedi Knights. Though these Clones wore Alliance uniforms, she couldn’t help but wonder if they meant to betray her in the same way. 

Major Camasu re-entered the room with a small glass of water and a plate of one cube of cheese and a small slice of bread. They locked eyes as she handed Jan the food. “Thank you,” she said, and she meant it. 

Camasu only blinked and nodded in response. 

The Clone trooper stood up and made a big show of bowing to her. She couldn’t tell if he was just doing it to annoy Camasu, but she smiled anyway. “I’m ARC-8667. Callsign Callum, Formerly of the Grand Army of the Republic.” He nodded towards the two men who had escorted her into the ready-room. “These two are Puma and Wildcat.” 

The other two soldiers, presumably clones as well, nodded to Jan from across the room.

“What’s your name, Commander?” 

“I already identified myself. I’m Jan Strange,” she said without thinking. Had she forgotten this wasn’t supposed to be personal?

The clone named Callum laughed of course, but she continued, “If you want my scan-docs, I have them in the shuttle. I can assure you, Commander Callum, that they will confirm my identity.” She wanted to leave it at that and move on. If these Clones weren’t going to help her, she needed to quit wasting her time and figure out a new plan. But their curiosity was piqued, so she told them her story. Years of training as an operative of the Rebellion. Years of training, of countless covert missions as a Fulcrum agent, of nightmares keeping her awake, of witnessing violence and suffering and death at the hands of the Empire. Years of not knowing a  _ thing  _ about who she was. All of what had happened to her should’ve broken her, but if anything, her hardships made her more determined to find whatever contacts she might have left within this cell. 

“I  _ know  _ they’re waiting for me. I just…” she stuffed her hands in her pockets and fiddled with the command holo-disk from Rebel command, the only hope she had of getting out of there. “My contact assured me over the coms channel that I could find them there.” 

The clone trooper’s initial amusement had slipped away, but instead of scowling like he was earlier, he was thoughtful. Then he grinned at his companions and said, “Maybe we can help you after all.” 

“You will hear out my offer, Commander?” Jan asked, her eyes widening.

Sella shook her head. “No, Jan Strange,” she replied. “But Commander Waska will.”

“Commander Waska?” The name sounded familiar, and she replayed the words from the briefing over again in the back of her mind.

“My commanding officer, and a close friend of mine” Camasu replied, sensing Jan’s inquiry. “She was preoccupied with other matters and could not welcome you aboard personally. But I will take you to her. I presume the two of you have much to discuss.”

Perhaps, Jan told herself, this would be more complicated than she thought.


	24. Chapter Twenty

**Chapter Twenty**

Though she led the Abrion Defense Network with the courage of a hardened veteran, Alik Waska was not, nor had she ever been, an experienced soldier. She had not participated in the Clone Wars, nor had she ever undergone any formal military training, but the skills she did possess had generally been enough to keep her and the men and women under her command alive. In a way, her lack of formal training was an asset to her and the members of the Abrion rebellion, one which was, though unapparent at first, vital to her cell’s very success.   
  
A trained soldier—who could intuit the tactics of enemy soldiers at a glance, or whose very reputation could sway the hearts and minds of the soldiers she commanded—would have quickly fallen into old habits, her decisions influenced by years of discipline and drill and protocol. When faced with a new enemy, her mind would have inevitably returned to previous training in an attempt to make some sense of the enemy’s movements. That soldier, consciously or by habit, would have sought out the enemy in order to formulate new tactics and strategies. In time, her desire to know more would surely have killed her, along with anyone else under her command.

Yet the reality of war was never as straightforward as the simulations; so Alik used what she did know and re-applied it to the battlefield. She used her skill as a writer to persuade her men to follow her and her talent for analysis to search for weaknesses in the enemy’s defenses. She gathered her friends around her and used their talents to supplement her own deficiencies. Though she knew little of military tactics, she soon learned that improvisation and experience could easily be honed to outweigh strategic expertise.   
  
She allowed herself to become lost in her calculations as she looked out the viewport towards the devastation which surrounded her command ship. The challenges of managing an entire Rebel cell were often overwhelming, and she glanced down at a small image of her homeworld of Naboo, which flickered from a holo-emitter she often carried with her. It brought her comfort in times of overwhelming stress, and she forced a slight smile as she thought of home. 

“Another incident on the mess deck? I know they’re damn good soldiers, Alik, but we’re going to have problems if I receive any more reports of incidents between Commander Callum’s Clones and our newest recruits.”

The words breached Alik’s concentration slowly, and she turned to face the Mon Calamari fighter pilot who had stepped through the bridge hatchway and was now standing by her side. When she heard them, understood them, she smiled and shook her head.

“After our victory over the Rishi moon, the men deserve a little time to celebrate. Leave them be, Buc. If there are any disciplinary infractions, Commander Callum will ensure the regulations are enforced. The old soldier is good at making himself heard.”   
  
“Oh, I never planned to do anything, Alik,” Buc laughed. The Clones of Wildcat Squad are Callum’s department. I’ve learned enough to stay out of their way during inspections.”

She turned to face him. The Mon Calamari smiled slightly, his lips curling upward into a slight smirk as he winked at her. The two were close friends, and she recalled the moment they first organized their loose confederacy of a half-dozen resistance movements across the system into a proper military force. She would never forget that day, and she gave him a nod of confidence. 

“I see you didn’t join Raven Squadron during the intercept?” Alik asked. Buc nodded after a few seconds, gesturing to the display, where the green friendly icons signifying X-Wings had mostly cleared up the last of the red TIE fighter markers.    
  
“The new pilots need some experience too,” Buc replied. “My boys could have cleaned up that flight with ease, but I’m not eager for glory. Besides, what better way to train our recruits than with actual combat experience? One of these days, they’ll need it.”  **  
** **  
** Alik couldn’t argue with her friend’s logic. “We’ve come a long way since Theed, haven’t we?” she asked him.    
  
“In more ways than one,” Buc nodded. “We’re parsecs from home now, further than anyone we’ve loved than ever before. And the way this war is going, it might be awhile before we get back. But we’re doing our part to make a difference, and that means a lot to all of us.”   
  
“I’m glad you are with me,” she said. “You and Callum and the rest of the cell make this war worth fighting.”   
  
“Likewise, Alik,” the Mon Calamari affirmed. “You have become one of my closest friends, and I appreciate your support.”   
  
_ “Camasu to Commander Waska. I’ve made contact with the crew of that freighter. They took one hell of a beating out there, but they’re alive.” _ _   
_   
“Any injured?” Alik asked.   
  
_ “The freighter’s engineering team was lost with their hyperdrive, Ma’am. The only others aboard are alive and well.” _ _   
_ _   
_ “Did Raven Squadron manage to scan the ship? Any idea what she was carrying that the Imps didn’t like?”

**  
**_“Della’s rechecked her scanners multiple times. The cargo bays scanned empty, Alik. There was no cargo aboard.”_ _  
_ _  
_ _Most_ _Imperials wouldn’t simply target an empty freighter._ Alik thought to herself. _Either the crew themselves were enemies of the Empire… or they were making a run to Scarif itself. But Buc and Della both scanned the surface of the planet on multiple occasions. They didn’t find anything… nothing except that faint signal from the surface that I dismissed…_

  
She paused, lingering over that last point for a moment. Buc had urged her not to dwell upon the findings of the Longprobe squadron. The loss of the Y-Wings and their pilots had been particularly hard on her, and a part of her refused to allow herself to hope. But there was no other reason she could think of that would bring such a heavily modified freighter this far into the Outer Rim. 

  
Then again, Della had been adamant that she had received _something_ from the Longprobe flight leader before his Y-wing went down. Inexperienced she might have been, but the young pilot wasn’t one to exaggerate her claims, especially about mission critical information. While the analysis provided by Major Camasau’s operatives hadn’t been able to confirm the specifics of the signal, they had been able to identify the signature as an Alliance issued transmission. 

  
Which meant that, perhaps, Della had been right after all. 

_ “Camasu to Commander Waska. I’ve arrived with the freighter’s pilot.” _ Alik’s train of thought was interrupted as Major Camasau’s voice came in over the com.   
  
“Very good, Miri. Send her in,” she told her softly, and Buc keyed the hatch open. 

If there was a chance that there were survivors on the surface, she told herself, she would endeavor to help them however she could. 

***

"You and your pilot sure know how to make an entrance, ‘Jan Strange.’ With the way those TIE fighters were on top of you, I’m surprised you even have a ship left." 

"With respect, Ma'am,” Jan replied, cracking her neck and giving the officer a concerned frown, “Kyle and I are used to those sorts of Imperial encounters. Hell, over Danuta, we had to take on three  _ Gozanti _ " class cruisers, plus the garrison’s fighter complement. With all that resistance, it’s honestly a miracle we survived.” 

"You flew with Kyle Katarn over Danuta?” Miri Camasau asked excitedly. “What was that like?” 

Jan shook her head. "A bloody miracle," she said simply.

The Mon Calamari beside Alik spoke up from the corner. "Considering the circumstances, I’m surprised you managed to outfly the Imps as long as you did. I don’t know many pilots who could maneuver an _HWK-290_ the way you did."  
  
Jan shook her head. "Honestly, I didn’t know if we were going to make it out in one piece, and we wouldn’t have without your fighter cover. But I know this ship. She isn’t your stock _HWK._ There have been… shall we say, significant modifications made to her."  
  
"So, what were you doing all the way out here?” Alik asked. “You’re a long way from any legitimate spaceport, and there’s nothing out here except the aftermath of a brutal battle."  
  
“We were en-route to Scarif under orders from the Rebel Alliance. I had orders to meet with a contact within the Abrion rebel cell. From what Major Camasau told me, I suspect that contact is you, Commander.”  
  
“We were also expecting a contact from Base One. Authorization?”  
  
“Fulcrum Five-Alpha.” Jan recited.   
  
“So you’re Jan Ors?” Alik teased. “ I might have known. You know, you gave yourself away when you mentioned Danuta and Kyle Katarn. A good agent doesn’t expose herself like that.”  
  
“You haven’t changed a bit since our last contact,” Jan laughed. “Still the same stubborn…” She let the sentence drop. Now wasn’t the time for sentiment.   
  
“Neither have you,” Alik responded. “I see the Alliance finally gave you the promotion I told them you deserved.” She gestured to the rank plaque on Jan’s shoulder. “A commander. After that narrow escape from the Imps all those months ago, that’s the least you deserved.”   
  
“I’m surprised they didn’t offer you a commission after that encounter. After all, you saved my life during that mission.”  
  
“The Alliance Council and I had different priorities at the time,” the Rodian admitted. “Besides, it was around that time Buq and Miri started forming the cell out here in the Abrion sector. As much as I would have wanted to join you, my heart would always be with them, and the cause in the Outer Rim.  
  
Jan nodded half-understandingly: "So who makes up this cell of yours?"  
  
Alik sat up, rubbing the bridge of her nose. "We're wanderers, Jan," she said simply. 

"Wanderers? What do you mean, Commander?" Jan looked back at Alik, a puzzled look on her face.

"Some of us were part of the Rebel fleet that survived Scarif and rendezvoused together after the battle to count our losses,” Alik explained. “Some of us were part of the air-strike that bombed the Imperial refinery on Edau, others helped lend aid to the survivors of Jedha before Imperial Special Forces hunted them down. Some of us lost our families, our friends, our homes to the Imperial regime long before there was ever any talk of a Death Star. And some of us... some of us just decided to make sure the Empire can't do that much damage again." 

"So, what brought all of you together to form this unit?” Jan asked. “What unified so many beings from across the galaxy into this one cell?" 

Miri smiled. "I think you know the answer to that, Commander," 

"What is it?" Jan asked. 

Alik and Miri spoke together. "Hope." 

Jan cocked her head. "Hope? What hope?" 

Alik smiled. "The same hope that caused Commander Katarn to infiltrate that outpost on Danuta, Jan. The same hope that convinced Rogue One to go to Scarif, even when the Alliance Council expressly forbade it. The same hope that will bring down the Death Star and put an end to Palpatine's tyranny."

Jan nodded and turned to Alik. "The Rebel Council on Yavin shares that same hope, Commander. Why not combine your efforts? Unity alone will bring us victory against the Emperor. If we do not stand together, we will surely die alone." 

"Not all rebels share the belief in a unified front, Jan,” Alik explained. Some of them prefer to bicker and fight with one another instead of standing against our enemy. We've offered our services to them in the past. Every time, High Command has stated we're better off staying out of their affairs." 

Jan frowned. "Why would they refuse your offer of alliance, Commander Waska? You have weapons, equipment, ammunition, supplies... Even a functioning  _ Venator _ …" 

Alik frowned. “It’s not our supplies and support they refuse to accept. It’s our ideals, our beliefs on how the war should be conducted. To put it simply, High Command and I have… different views on the Empire and the nature of how our operations against it should be conducted.” 

Jan frowned. “What do you mean?” 

Alik sighed. “Let’s just say that not everyone in the Alliance wishes to dethrone Palpatine for the same reasons. The more… radical members of the coalition you and I call the Rebel Alliance have other reasons for hating the Empire, and other ideas about how the Rebellion should respond to the threat.” 

“Other ideas, Commander Waska?” Jan asked. “Like those of Saw Gerrera’s Partisans on Jedha?” 

Alik nodded. “Yes, Jan. Though I can safely assure you that we don’t operate like those cells. Terror and fear won’t bring the Empire down. Using their tactics against them won’t break their resolve, only rouse their ire.”

”But neither,” Miri interjected, “can we just sit by and wait for High Command’s orders or their decisions. Your Sergeant Erso said it best. The time to fight is now.”

“Sergeant Erso…” Jan mused. “We owe her a lot, don’t we?”   
  
“We owe them all a lot,” Major Camasu corrected. “They’re the reason we’re still here today, the reason the Alliance now stands a fighting chance against the Empire.”   
  
“If there was a way to bring any of them back, I’d willingly do it,” Alik admitted.   
  
Jan nodded. “Actually, Commander, that’s part of the reason we were sent here. The cell on Yavin confirmed the findings of your Longprobe flight. The signal the Y-Wings picked up was an Alliance transponder signature. In short, Ma’am… we think part of Rogue One is alive down on Scarif, and we’d like your help to get them home.”


	25. Chapter Twenty-One

**Chapter Twenty-One**

Jyn Erso pulled the tip of her vibroblade from the body of the Stormtrooper who had pursued her into the bunker, smearing the unfortunate woman’s blood against her trousers. The bunker was dim enough that she doubted anyone would see the puddle of blood she’d created, and she’d also been very careful to conceal the dead trooper’s body in the shadows beneath a heap of collapsed rubble, where it would be difficult for a passing patrol to notice her with just a passing glance.

She signed heavily, checking her bandaged wounds for further signs of strain or distress. Cassian wasn’t with her now, and the last thing she wanted was to let her injuries worsen over time without him there to assist her. Besides, he still had most of the medical supplies with him, and while Stormtrooper medical kits were versatile, she wasn’t about to push them to their limits if she could avoid it. So, she looked over her wounds, one by one, taking careful mental note of their appearance and the relative amount of pain they caused her.

Thankfully, she didn’t find anything too concerning. Though Jyn was no medical expert, she came to the conclusion that her most recent encounters with the Imperials hadn’t done anything to injure her further, and the injuries she had sustained were healing from the bacta Cassian had applied earlier, albeit slowly. Satisfied with her present condition, Jyn rebandaged her inured arm and side with clean dressings, tucked away her vibroblade, and turned her attention to the matter of food and water. Thankfully, Cassian had given her some of the rations he had taken off the U-Wing, and she still had the Stormtrooper’s field rations to fall back on, though she didn’t relish the thought of consuming the foul, tasteless Imperial food supply all that much.

As she ate, Jyn took the time to survey her surroundings. The bunker she had entered was mostly empty. Directly above her was the hatch she entered, while directly across from her, a rack of weapons and ammunition was tucked into one corner of the room beside the hatch leading into the main part of the base. On the wall to the left of that central hatchway sat a large computer console similar in appearance to the one Kay and Cassian had hacked into on the surface during their first infiltration of the Citadel, and to the right was another hatchway, smaller in size, that Jyn suspected led to a maintenance area or other secondary part of the bunker.

And Jyn turned her attention back to the main feature of the room: the large computer bank, which loomed in front of her, as if daring her to come closer. She saw no signs of the console’s operating team, and she wondered if they had fled further into the complex when the Death Star fired upon the surface. Either way, they weren’t nearby, and she approached the databank, checking the consoles to ensure they were intact. After confirming their structural integrity, Jyn knelt in front of the console and powered it up, praying to the Force that it was still operational.

She almost squealed with delight when it activated. The screens of the computer terminal flickered to life, and she watched as the primary display flickered and turned on, displaying the Imperial insignia. After a few moments, a security prompt flickered across the screen.

_ACCESS RESTRICTED. COMMAND AUTHORIZATION REQUIRED._

A computer terminal like this probably contained access into the bunker’s communications network, Jyn reasoned to herself, or at the very least a map of the facility that she could use to navigate. Either one would be an asset at this point. But how to access the console and get the information it contained? Jyn pondered for a moment, and recognized a familiar scanner placed at the base of one of the terminal screens. She analyzed it for a moment, wondering what exactly it was used for.

 _Right hand._ The security droid’s voice still hummed in the back of her mind. She smiled internally.

“Thanks, Kay,” she muttered under her breath as she crawled her way back into the shadows to retrieve the corpse of the Stormtrooper she had killed. When she had maneuvered the body into a seated position in front of the console (a difficult task, considering her injured arm and the weight of the Imperial’s gear,) Jyn removed the woman’s glove and pressed her hand into the scanning aperture. There was a hiss and a mechanical whir, and she watched a series of letters flicker across the screen. For a moment, Jyn wondered if she had found the information she and Cassian sought, but that hope was dashed as she read the message that flickered across the screen.

_INSUFFICIENT SECURITY CLEARANCE. COMMAND AUTHORIZATION DENIED._

_“Worth a try, Jyn,”_ she muttered to herself as the screen went dark.

She glanced down at the Imperial woman’s body, and cursed herself for her carelessness. A regular trooper wouldn’t have the clearance to access an Imperial database or security terminal, much less a terminal located in a heavily restricted part of the base. A wave of hopelessness washed over her, and she dragged the body back into the shadows where she had originally concealed it. There was nothing more the dead woman could do for her. She was so close to her goal, so very close, only to be stopped by the simple fact that the Stormtrooper who had followed her into the bunker wasn’t an officer and didn’t carry the proper clearances.

Glancing up at the hatchway, she considered climbing back up to the surface to retrieve the bodies of the other Stormtroopers she had killed, but hesitated at the thought. The Imperials had more than likely doubled their security by now. Trying to retrieve anything from the surface, much less the bodies of dead Stormtroopers, would be a virtual impossibility, and she cursed once more, uttering a series of foul expletives she had learned from her time among the Partisans. For the first time since arriving on Scarif, she actually _needed_ an Imperial patrol to find her. 

Or did she?

An idea formed in her head, and Jyn smirked to herself as she remembered she still carried the identification of the Stormtrooper whose gear she currently wore. Opening the Imperial’s utility pouch, she removed the Imperial’s ID chip, confirmed the trooper in question held an officer’s rank, and gently pressed it into the scanner, taking great care to avoid pressing her own handprints into the aperture.

For a moment, Jyn forced herself to look away. She didn’t want to think about the possibility of failure, of what she would have to tell Cassian if this didn’t work out. But eventually, she decided to chance a look at the screen. One way or another, she told herself, she’d have to check the readout eventually.

She was pleasantly surprised to find the Stormtrooper officer’s ID had successfully accessed the display.

She was greeted with a map overlay of the entire underground complex. The locations of security checkpoints, weapons, medical supplies, everything she and Cassian needed to survive in enemy territory were now at her disposal, and she wanted to contact him and inform him of her discovery. She reached for her belt comlink, and was astonished to find it missing.

 _Karabast._ She must have lost it during her battle on the surface, or the struggle with the Stormtrooper who had followed her into the bunker. Either way, Jyn told herself, she was on her own, and she had to move quickly. But she now had a map of the complex, courtesy of the information now in her possession, and that gave her at least a modicum of hope.

 _“No big deal,”_ she said to herself optimistically. “ _The only obstacle between me and my objective is is a battalion or so of Imperial stormtroopers, commandos, and officers—and the fact that I have no idea where to look."_

Shaking off her doubts for the moment, Jyn continued to search her surroundings. She reasoned that a large databank like this likely had an operating team, or at the very least an astromech droid used to maintain the computers. If she could find either the droid or the sensor operator, she might locate another form of clearance to access the system further, or at the very least locate a data-slate she could use to recreate the map she had just discovered.

Eventually, after a brief check of the room, she located the object of her search. The unfortunate operator of the control panel lay slumped in the shadows just out of her direct line of vision. From what Jyn could ascertain, the Imperial had perished long before she had stumbled upon the bunker, and she mused to herself why she hadn’t noticed him before. Either she had simply missed his body during her initial check of the room, or she had simply been too busy taking care of herself to acknowledge the dead man’s presence.

Either way, Jyn said to herself, after reminding herself to be more observant next time, the information the dead technician possessed could most likely help her now, and she moved closer to the body, vibroblade poised to strike. She suspected the man was most likely dead, but she couldn’t be too careful. After all, Jyn reminded herself, _she_ had also survived the Death Star as well. Perhaps the Imperial had also been as fortunate.

Cautiously, Jyn made her way to the technician’s side. After confirming the man’s demise, she carefully removed his identification from his uniform, along with the personal heads-up-display mounted on his wrist. After this, she sat up and began searching the console in front of her for a particular set of controls. She considered using the tech’s handprint analyzer to gain complete access to the panel, but the sound of footsteps above her head reminded her that speed was of the essence. She could complete her analysis of the databank later, she decided, after she had gathered more supplies and found a way to contact Cassian again.

Locating the wrist-console’s uplink cable, Jyn inserted it into the console and began to download the map of the underground complex into it. As the file transferred, Jyn glanced over the map, taking careful note of patrol routes, security checkpoints, and other potential hazards, as well as the locations of arms, ammunition, and medical supplies.

And... what was that?

She glanced down at the screen at a small alcove located within one of the larger rooms. She hovered her finger over it, attempting to identify the room, and the same _Access denied_ message she had received earlier. For a moment, Jyn considered hacking into the system, but she decided against it. Most Imperial security interfaces had very complex security mechanisms, and the tools she usually used for such operations were no longer in her possession.

“ _Well, I guess I’m going to have to do this the hard way.”_

Taking a deep breath, she reloaded her rifle, took a sip of water out of her canteen, and moved to the smaller of the bunker’s two hatches. Using the technician’s security card, she unsealed the door and stepped inside, moving cautiously and checking for security monitors and cameras. A base like this, especially in such a highly compound, was going to be heavily guarded, and she expected to see a maintenance chamber.

She was pleasantly surprised to find a storage locker instead, full of equipment and supplies the bunker might need for self-sufficiency. Ready-to-eat food, medical kits, ammunition for various Imperial grade weapons, rescue flares, and a small, oblong object which clipped to her utility belt.

A personal shield unit, Jyn recognized.

Her emerald eyes gleamed with anticipation as she claimed her prize and clipped it firmly into place. After inserting several charging units, which were conveniently located on the same shelf as the generator, Jyn was ready to proceed.

_“When I get out of here, if I get out of here, I’m going to need to tell Cassian about this place.”_

***

As she proceeded down the hallway, Jyn took the time to check her new equipment. The PDA device on her arm was manageable enough, and she quickly got used to switching her view between the map on her wrist and the darkness in front of her. Though it was somewhat jarring at first, Jyn was more than used to adapting to new situations, and she felt relieved that the relative calm of the corridor in front of her gave her time to adjust to her new equipment in relative peace, as opposed to a spur-of-the-moment shift in the middle of combat. 

As helpful as the PDA was, it paled in comparison to the other piece of technology she had scavenged from the bunker. Her personal shield generator provided her an interface to monitor her health (which she discovered purely by accident), and she was relieved to find that it read her current condition as sixty percent healthy. Given her injured arm and wounded side, as well as the general pain which throbbed through her entire body, she half expected her condition to be worse, but she reminded herself that caution was of the utmost priority. Though the data-pad provided her the locations of medical equipment, she doubted she would have the time to properly patch herself up if she encountered another substantial Imperial patrol. It had taken her and Cassian quite some time to restore her to her current state, and she doubted she could do so again, especially on her own. 

Then again, she now had information that would allow her to avoid the worst Imperial entanglements, if she was cautious enough. 

A ways down the hallway, the map noted an indentation in the wall that Jyn suspected led to an air-duct. Jyn maneuvered her way in front of it, detached the multi-tool from her belt, and began detaching the screws which held it in place. After carefully removing the vent cover, she slipped inside and made her way into the dark passage. She took the time to replace the cover before she proceeded, lest an Imperial patrol noticed something was out of place. 

The vent she had entered eventually led Jyn to a ladder, which presumably provided access to one of the maintenance tubes. Without hesitation, Jyn climbed into the tube, gripping the ladder tightly. After confirming her location on the map and checking her weapons, she began her descent into the darkness. 


	26. Chapter Twenty-Two

**Chapter Twenty-Two**

Jyn saw a large white numeral 1 and knew she had gone far enough. The ladder continued downward through a man-sized hole, and she stepped onto the grating provided for that purpose. The access hatch, also marked with a big white 1, stood in front of her. There would be troopers on this level, lots of them, assuming she had interpreted the data on the bunker’s console correctly, and she unclipped the stun baton from her belt and extended it silently. As much as she wanted to use the vibroblade, Jyn wasn’t about to leave a trail of blood through the halls of an Imperial facility if she could avoid it.

Besides, she told herself, she didn’t need a blade to kill a Stormtrooper up close.

She drew the blaster pistol Cassian had given her before their journey to the Citadel, took a deep breath, and touched the entry plate. The door slid open, a commando appeared, and Jyn fired two bolts into the man’s chest before he could react. The Imperial staggered, fired a shot into the ceiling, and fell. It happened so quickly there was no time to be afraid.

Jyn set her blaster pistol to the side momentarily, exchanged her rifle for the Imperial's fresh E-11, and relieved him of his power cells before dragging the body into the turbolift shaft and starting off down the hall. The lights were relatively dim and the walls were bare, their design matching that of the corridors on the surface that she and Cassian had wound their way through during their first infiltration of the base. As she moved through the darkness, Jyn’s mind set to work calculating her odds.

From her previous encounters with the Imperials on the surface, Jyn reasoned she had two main allies: surprise and speed. The trick was to make maximum use of both. The left-hand wall led to a door, a rather important door, one she would eventually return to. There were other things to do first, however, such as disabling the security alarms.

An operations room appeared to the right, an Imperial toward the hall, and she fired a burst into him with the deftness and skill Saw Gerrera’s training had drilled into her. The man slumped down in front of the display he was manning, bumping his head against the ceramacrete floor, and she cursed under her breath, praying that the sudden sound hadn’t alerted other Imperials to her presence. After a few moments of breathless waiting, when she could be assured the coast was clear, Jyn crept towards the body, dragging it away into the darkness where it was less likely to be detected.

_ “So far so good, Jyn old girl,”  _ she whispered to herself, as she claimed the dead man’s blaster pistol and ammunition, slipping her mostly discharged A280 into his holster. “ _ Now to get out of here before that man’s friends try to figure out what happened to him…” _

A quick glance about the corridor confirmed one door to her left, another door to her right, and a hall straight ahead which led towards a primary doorway. Jyn paused for a moment, considering her options. The lack of sound from above her confirmed that no Imperials from the surface had followed her into the facility, at least for the time being. Either they had broken off their pursuit after losing her signature on their scanners, or they assumed that the Stormtrooper who had pursued her into the bunker had managed to overcome her. Whatever reason they had broken off the pursuit, Jyn wasn’t about to let them find her now. Checking behind her (her instincts convinced her that the probability of ambush was quite high,) she reloaded the dead trooper’s rifle with a fresh charge pack, ducked back into the shadows, and cautiously crept her way out of the darkness into the wider passageway.

Which strategy should she pursue? Check the hall to eliminate whatever opposition might be hiding there?

Or try the first door - followed by the second?

The decision was made for her when an Imperial trooper - an Army trooper, judging from the dark color of his uniform and his lack of Stormtrooper plating - appeared at the far end of the hallway and opened fire. She fired in return, confirmed the Imperial’s demise, only to flinch as she felt the heat of blaster fire fan the side of her face. A second trooper, this one backed by his superior officer, had detected her, and were attempting to suppress her return fire. They were too slow, however, and she switched the E-11 off of single-fire and delivered a powerful three-shot burst in the soldiers’ direction.

The Imperials were quick to return fire. They narrowly avoided her shots, sending a series of well-aimed blaster bolts careening into the wall behind her. Jyn ducked, went to automatic, and smirked to herself as she watched the Imperials fall. Concerned that there could be more where those came from, she moved up the corridor, grabbed some loose power packs, and followed the hall to the left. A quick survey of her surroundings confirmed that the communications center was, for the moment, clear of hostile activity. Jan checked the area one last time, assured herself the hall was empty, and returned the way she had come.

A quick turn to the right brought her to a large durasteel door with illuminated panels. The console in the bunker she had first entered claimed that an officer’s security key was required in order to open it, but computers, even Imperial ones, were known to be wrong. Raising her baton, Jyn approached the door, touched the access panel, and waited for something to happen. Nothing did.

Jyn was disappointed, but she wasn’t about to let a mere locked door deter her from getting access. There was nothing to do but retrace her steps, reposition herself in front of the second door on the other side of the room, and prepare for the worst. Once through, according to the data she had gathered, she would dash to the other side of an open chamber, open a hatchway, jump on a turbolift, enter the security station, and relieve the duty officer of his security key. All under fire. Not a pleasant prospect.

She pressed her fingers against the control panel and braced herself as the door in front of her slid open. She smiled as she proceeded towards it.    
  


_ “Let’s hope those Imperial computers are right,”  _ she told herself. “ _ Otherwise, this could be a long day.” _

***

A pair of stormtroopers stood sentry on the other side of the hatchway, engaging in casual conversation with one another as they paced about with their backs to the door. Jyn spent a fraction of a second considering whether it was ethical to shoot them from behind, then fired as one of them started to turn. A pair of blows from the stun baton quickly dispatched the second sentry, and Jyn moved through the hatch, sighing with relief as she felt the door close behind her.

The next section of hallway was dark; the Death Star’s superlaser had apparently compromised the lighting in this particular tunnel. Jyn found herself surrounded on all sides by the ceramacrete tunnel, giving him little room to maneuver. Switching on her rifle’s glow rod, she continued on her way, gradually coming to an open courtyard of a room.

The room before her, like the hallway which preceded it, was incredibly dim. Sheer walls rose ahead of and behind her, while the heavy ceramacrete ceiling lingered overhead, preventing the upper levels of the Citadel from collapsing downwards. 

She ducked back into the shadows as five sets of ghostly white armor appeared to her right, interrupting her thoughts. She moved too slowly, however, and the Stormtroopers responded in kind, opening fire upon her without hesitation. Without pausing, Jyn snapped around with a sudden movement, discharging her own E-11 with quick precision. She had switched her weapon to full-automatic now, consuming energy at a prodigious rate, but the stormtroopers stood little chance of escape as they clattered to the ground. 

Jyn turned, spotted four troopers on the upper-level walkway above her, and flinched as a bolt singed her shoulder. Logic dictated that this was it, the end of her life, since no one could shoot that straight or fast . . . Unless- the thought acted like a trigger.

_ I am one with the Force and the Force is with me. _

Chirrut’s words came to her, and she pressed her fingers lightly against her breast, where the faint glow of her Kyber necklace illuminated the darkness around her. Time appeared to slow and she felt her senses grow gradually more acute. The Force was like a river that carried all before it. Those who lived in harmony with its currents were strengthened – while those who stood in opposition were drowned beneath its tides like ships caught in a sudden tempest.

Jyn stood within an eddy, chose her target, and fired. Not a long burst, but a single, perfectly aimed shot.

The bolt found its mark, as did the rest. 

She felt pressure from the right, turned, and fired again. The sole attacking stormtrooper threw his arms out as if crucified and landed on his back. Free of danger for the moment, Jyn exchanged her nearly empty E-11 for one snatched from the ground and ran for the hatchway at the opposite end of the courtyard. It opened to her touch and her heart lurched in her chest as another three Imperials swiveled in her direction, their blasters blazing with crimson fury.

_ Kriffing bastards, _ she muttered to herself.  _ Was there no end to them? _

Surprised by Jyn’s sudden appearance, and apparently unaware of the battle that had been fought nearby, the Imperials were gunned down while still trying to bring their weapons to bear. Jyn grabbed their reserve power packs and scanned the room. There was only one way to go - the hatchway which led to the turbolift. 

She checked her weapon, touched the control panel, and took aim at the lift door. When it opened, she half expected to see a full squad of stormtroopers armed with everything up to and including rocket launchers, and she braced herself for another fight. 

Slowly, she took a step forward. The door to the turbolift opened with a loud hiss and Jyn breathed a sigh of relief as she realized the platform was empty. Relieved, but still apprehensive about what she would encounter on the level above her, Jyn entered the lift, turning her back to the wall. Though the ride was short, she was ready when it was over.

The officer, a thin, gangly looking man with a badly scarred face, died first. His demise was quickly followed by a Stormtrooper who asked for Jyn’s identification, and shortly after by an Army trooper equipped with only her sidearm. The security key lay within inches of this third officer's fingertips. It pulsed with internal light and felt warm to the touch, and she smiled eagerly as she tucked it away into her utility belt. 

The trip back down the lift was mercifully uneventful as was the quick dash across the dimly lit chamber of the courtyard and the hallway which preceded it. The flickering lights marked the door as did the pair of bodies sprawled in front of it. It opened smoothly and closed behind her as she stepped through. A quick check of the control area to her left, and the hallway on her right, was sufficient to assure Jyn that her earlier adversaries remained undiscovered. Or were they?

The impulse that caused her to look upward came at the same exact moment as the blaster bolt that blistered the paint beside her. Jyn classified herself as an idiot for not noticing the upper-level window the first time she had passed that way, nailed the sniper with a sustained blast, and heard an alarm start to bleat. 

So much for surprise, Jyn told herself. Now, speed was her single remaining ally.

She sprinted forward, approached the door that refused to open the first time she tried it, and inserted the key. The door opened, an Army trooper raised his weapon, and Jyn struggled to respond.

She knew she had been a hair too slow, a tiny bit overconfident, and waited to die. The trooper, certain of his kill, squeezed the trigger, and squeezed it again. Nothing happened. Stumped, and curious as to the nature of the problem, the Imperial checked his safety. It was the last mistake he ever made. Jyn stepped over the body and entered the lift. Blue-white light poured down from above, and a square illuminated the floor. As before, the turbolift carried Jyn upward more quickly than she really wanted to go, and opened onto a spacious lobby. An open window ran along the opposite wall. Knowing she'd have to turn her back to it in order to explore the rest of the area, Jyn approached it. A single glance was enough to establish that the area beyond was the walkway from which four troopers had fired down upon her earlier.

Two stormtroopers, just arrived, stood over their bodies. Jyn shot them, turned, and went to full auto as more Imperials appeared from the right. Luck, inertia, and adrenaline were all with her as the troopers staggered and fell. The stink of ozone and burned flesh filled his nostrils as he sensed motion and fired again.

Jyn took a moment to reload and pick up some power packs before activating the red wall switch. A glassless window overlooked the downstairs hall. Jyn looked down, saw a section of wall slide upward, and realized how vulnerable she'd been earlier. A single commando could easily have sniped her from above.

Jyn considered the ramifications of the jump versus the lift, and settled on the jump. It wasn't too far, and it would save precious time. She slipped her arm through the assault weapon's sling, swung through the opening, and hung from her fingertips. It required a conscious act of will to let go.

She ducked into the heretofore protected area, "felt" the trooper before she actually saw him, and aimed for the spot where the Imperial would appear. The soldier obliged, staggered as if drunk, and fell face-down on the floor.

Cautious now, and hyper-aware, Jyn approached a waist-high wall. He looked over and down, spotted two troopers on a gently curved staircase, and fired one shot at each. They fell and tumbled down. Satisfied that the stairs were momentarily safe, Jyn placed her back to the core around which they had been wound, and moved to the right. Speed was of the essence, she knew that. She took the stairs two at a time. She heard a shout, followed by a wild spray of blaster fire, as a trooper discovered his comrades and sought revenge. Jyn crouched low so as to present the smallest possible target, eased her way forward, shot the Imperial in the legs, and raced on past.

The stairs ended in front of a metal door. Jyn touched the access panel, fired her weapon through the quickly growing gap, and saw two troopers backpedal and fall. She felt nothing in particular as they died and realized how numbing the violence had become. Shoot, kill, shoot, kill, always wondering if it would be her turn to die. The helmets made it easier somehow, since with the exception of the officers and commandos, her enemies died faceless, more like targets than people.

Another flight of stairs presented itself followed by another door. Jyn hated the doors by now, stupid metal things behind which danger inevitably lurked, and through which she must pass to complete her objective. How many more would she have to endure? How many more could she possibly survive?

The door opened, Jyn passed through, and she felt her pulse quicken. She saw banks of electronics, tables covered with light circuits, and acres of raised flooring. She was close now, extremely close to whatever the console had pointed out to her, and she could feel a surge of excitement start to build within her.

An officer turned, saw Jyn, and died. An army trooper spun, attempted to run, and took a bolt through the back. Two stormtroopers, one tall, one short, came at the run. Jyn targeted the tall one first, put him down, and switched to number two. Her aim was only a hair off, but that was sufficient. The glossy white armor did what it was supposed to and bounced the bolt away. Jyn tripped, sprawled on the floor, and felt, rather than saw the energy beam sizzle through the spot where she'd been.

The next shot, more luck than skill, caught the trooper square in the midsection and knocked him over. Shaken by the close call, Jyn scrambled to her feet and stumbled forward. The grid-style ceiling stretched away, monitors hung like overripe fruit, and that... What the kriff was that? It looked like a humanoid figure. Only somehow transparent.

As Jyn drew closer, she realized that the apparition was a three-dimensional depiction of  _ something _ \- a new form of Stormtrooper armor, perhaps- as it would look when finally completed. Perplexed, Jyn traced a series of thoughts back through her mind. As far as she knew, there was no secret prototype of Stormtrooper armor stored within the Archives… but then again, there were many projects stored here under Director Krennic’s orders.

She thought backwards, trying to recall the names of the other projects she and Cassian had seen in the secured vault. _ War Mantle, Cluster Prism, Black Saber,  _ none of these names stood out as prototypes of an advanced Stormtrooper project. Then again, not all of the projects she had seen had been overseen by her father. Perhaps the engineers who had overseen this particular operation had been more subtle about this particular project? But even if they had been, it wouldn’t explain the high levels of security placed around this data cartridge in particular, nor, for that matter, would it explain why this project, whatever it was, had been stored in isolation from the massive stacks of other cartridges in the main section of the vault.

Whatever was on this data-disc, Jyn told herself, it had to be important. Not Death-Star levels of importance, but certainly important enough to warrant his level of security. She questioned why Director Krennic had opted to store this project in the underground vaults instead of the plans for the Death Star, but she dismissed those questions for the moment as the same sort of Imperial oversight that had permitted Tarkin to fire his Death Star upon an Imperial garrison.

If there was an Imperial secret project within her grasp, Jyn told herself, she wasn’t about to let it slip away without a fight.

The air grew thicker now, as if evil had substance. It seemed to push her back. Jyn reached for the Force, found where it pulsed, and reentered the flow. It carried her through the holo and into the hall beyond.

The approaching troopers seemed in a hurry to throw themselves in front of her blaster bolts and crumpled to the floor. An officer appeared from behind a console and ran forward as if to intercept her. Jyn fired a carefully aimed shot. She caught little more than a glimpse of the officer’s face as he fell, hoped the sound of her blaster fire hadn’t alerted any more unwanted attention, and stepped over the man’s body.

Jyn circled the large U-shaped desk, found the switch where the console in the bunker had indicated, and flipped it on. She heard a motor whine, watched the wall start to rise, and saw what he had come for. The data cartridge looked the same as the one for the Death Star had been: a large, rectangular object wedged into a central matrix along with a handful of similar, smaller cartridges of roughly the same shape. The wall behind it was gold in color and bore delta-shaped patterns. Jyn vaulted onto the intervening table, dashed forward, and jumped down as the lights began to pulsate. Her boots thumped against the floor and momentum carried her forward.

Her fingers tingled as she reached through the force field, secured a grip on the matrix, and pulled it free. The module felt warm against her chest. She had it! The data cartridge, along with the information it contained, was hers. She couldn’t know if the information in the cartridge would help her and Cassian escape, but it was certainly better than the prospect of returning to him empty-handed. At the very least, she had the map she had downloaded from the bunker’s console to show Cassian, but this… this  _ felt _ important.

Though larger than she might have wished, the matrix weighed next to nothing, and Jyn had little difficulty carrying it. The E-11 she was carrying was a problem, though, so she discarded it, drawing the blaster pistol she had taken off the trooper she had slain earlier. The door was obvious. Jyn hit the control panel, stood to one side, waited as a trooper stepped forward, and promptly shot him in the temple. Troopers opened fire and a console exploded. She dropped to the floor, stuck her arm around the doorjamb, and fired where she "felt" they ought to be. They were, and after checking around the corner, she entered the room.

The lift was cylindrical in shape, clearly marked. Jyn hit the switch, waited for the door to open, and was relieved when no one shot at her. 

_ “This is too easy,”  _ she remarked to herself.  _ “Now to get back to Cassian.” _


	27. Chapter Twenty-Three

**Chapter Twenty-Three**

Cassian fled into the darkness away from the Imperials, firing sporadically as he raced back towards the place he and Jyn had designated as their rendezvous point. He felt himself grow winded, and a part of him wondered if he should attempt to rest.

He had been drawing them away from the path he had used to reach the vault, moving away from his original approach while simultaneously moving towards Jyn’s location. At some point, he would turn and move back towards his initial approach path, and hopefully the troopers would continue following his original vector.

It was a simple enough plan, he told himself. If it worked, he would be back with Jyn soon enough.

If it worked. If it didn’t work, he wouldn’t be around long enough to contemplate what part of it went wrong.

He chanced a glance behind him, and his heart began to sink. The troopers were already gaining on him. He could see them advancing, racing along the ridge above him in an attempt to cut him off; pursuing from the rear in a wide formation to keep him from doubling back. Their blaster fire lit up the darkening sky, illuminating the ruins in flashes of scarlet light, coupled with the pale white aura of the glow rods attached to their weapon rails. They would be upon him soon, Cassian told himself, and he didn’t relish the thought of what they might do to him if he was caught.

A trooper shouted a command. There was the sound of clattering armor, which grew louder as the squad approached. Thinking quickly, Cassian rolled left, firing a series of short bursts from his rifle. He heard a cry of agony as one of the troopers went down, followed by the sound of voices as his squad members confirmed the kill. Relieved he had actually hit something; Cassian breathed a sigh of relief. His heart, as well as his shoulder throbbed intensely. For a moment, he considered pausing here, hiding in the shadows long enough for the Imperials to overtake him. Once they passed, he could continue on, or alternatively fire upon them from ambush as they passed. But even as a part of him longed for battle, another part of him was overtaken with a sudden fear.

If he waited here, he told himself, the enemy would find Jyn. Perhaps they had already found her.

Instinct gave way to emotion, and he reached for his com. He should check in with her, he told himself, but he hesitated as the sounds of the troopers’ footsteps grew steadily closer. No, he couldn’t risk giving away his position. Even a whisper could be overheard, and the thought of that many blasters trained on his position caused him to reconsider his strategy. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t rest. He had to keep running, had to keep leading them away from her.

_ “After him!” _ _   
_ _   
_ _ “Did you see where he went?” _ _   
_ _   
_ __ “Squad two, try to get ahead of him. We’ll surround him as he crests that ridge!”

The shouts of the Imperials echoed through the darkened sky, and Cassian could feel himself growing more and more weary with each step. He was running purely on instinct now; with no light in front of him, he had only his memory and the occasional flash of light from a blaster or glow rod to illuminate the path before him. He had already stumbled several times trying to make it this far, or almost collided with obstacles in his path. But he couldn’t fail. Even as he raced ahead into the shadows, he imagined her, huddled in her makeshift shelter, frightened and afraid. He wanted to contact her. He wanted to tell her that he was at least alive, that he would soon be with her. But he couldn’t. Too much was at stake, too much would be lost if he gave his location away. All he could do was keep running, on and on into the night, and pray he was not too late.

After a long while, the sound of the pursuing Stormtroopers seemed to fade away into the distance. Cassian stopped running, one hand clasping the grip of his rifle. Cautiously, he flicked the glow-rod on. It glowed brightly, and he swept it around him, searching for some sign of cover. As soon as it activated, however, a fusillade of blaster bolts came careening through the darkness. He staggered back, every part of his body weak from exertion, hunger, and pain. A part of him considered returning fire, but there was no time. The troopers held every advantage in this engagement. There were more of them than there were of him, and they had far more ammunition to expend and far less to lose than he did. Even if he managed to hit one or two of his pursuers, the Stormtroopers would send for reinforcements, most likely using AT-ST walkers or TIE fighters to pummel the ruins without mercy until he was slain..

Hiding was his only option, Cassian muttered to himself. Some way or another, he would have to find cover, and find it fast. As the troopers closed in around him, he glanced away from them just long enough to stare down at the memory chip tucked into his utility belt. He could hear Kay’s voice in his head, the words all too clear to him even in his weary state.

_ “I have a bad feeling about this.” _

After what felt like an eternity, the sounds of Imperial footsteps seemed to subside. Cassian peered out of his temporary shelter; his hands clasped around the transmitter he had pulled from the rubble. It seemed to be in working order, and he tucked it into his utility belt opposite to Kay’s chip. With any luck, he could use it to contact the Alliance, once he made it back to Jyn.

Assuming he could make it back to Jyn, he told himself.

Slowly, he crept out of the destruction, flickering the glow-rod off and on in turn as he attempted to get his bearings. When no troopers fired in his direction, he left it on, using his hand to at least partially obscure the beam. Cautiously, blaster in hand, he meandered his way back in the direction he had come. By this time, exhaustion had almost overtaken him. He couldn’t tell whether his muscles or his wounded shoulder hurt more, and his stomach rumbled suddenly with a raging hunger. For a moment he paused, wondering just how long he had neglected his body’s needs. Upon realizing he hadn’t eaten in over a day, he carefully opened a ration pack he had gathered from one of the Stormtroopers and ate quickly and efficiently, looking up every so often to ensure he wasn’t being tracked.

He finished the meal hastily and continued on his way, weaving his way through the destruction back towards the rendezvous. The rations weren’t nearly enough to satisfy his hunger, and he opened another pack, eating hastily, only pausing to look up long enough to search for enemy troops. Still he was not satisfied, and he reached for a third ration, only to stop himself abruptly. He wasn’t the only one he had to feed, he told himself. Jyn probably hadn’t eaten either, and she was injured far worse than he was. He had to spare some of those rations for her, in spite of the hunger pangs that still radiated through his stomach. He felt himself thirst as well; the Death Star had done little to ease the tropical heat of the planet and the heavy ashen dust he had been breathing for much of the day had done little to help his dry throat.

He coughed heavily, reaching for the canteen that Stormtroopers normally carried with them. Finding it in the dark wasn’t easy, and Cassian swore intensely as his fingers dislodged one of the last of his blaster’s energy cell magazines and sent it into the darkness. He took count of his ammunition. He had one magazine left, plus the half-charged one he currently carried in his rifle. He still had charge packs from the pistol he had brought with him to Scarif, but they would deplete quickly in a firefight. For a moment he considered searching for it, but he quickly changed his mind. One charge pack was less important than getting back to Jyn.

Jyn, he told himself. He had to comm Jyn. Undoubtedly, she was panicking at his sudden lack of contact. Panic wasn’t helpful to someone trapped behind enemy lines, especially someone in such an injured state. He had to reach out to her, or at least attempt to. If he could reach her, inform her he was on his way, he could give her hope.

And hope, Cassian knew, was a powerful thing.

He switched on the com, doing his best not to draw attention to himself.

“Rogue One,” he began, but his parched throat failed him. Swearing again, Cassian slung his blaster and downed the canteen. The cool water was a relief in his dry mouth and he spoke again, a little clearer.

“Rogue One to Stardust, do you copy?”

Silence greeted him, and he forced himself not to assume the worst. A feeling of dread seemed to pass over Cassian’s thoughts. Had she heard him? Had she switched off her com to avoid detection? Was she even there to answer him at all? For a moment a thousand different questions appeared to assail Cassian on all fronts, and he could hardly think straight. As he listened, he continued making his way back towards the rendezvous, praying he was not too late.


	28. Chapter Twenty-Four

**Chapter Twenty-Four**

Malora Dessyk was glad the expression on her face was hidden behind her helmet as her patrol made their way through the Citadel ruins. The bodies of countless Stormtroopers littered the ashen ground, and she forced herself not to attempt to identify the bodies as she passed them by.

A part of her remembered the days before the coming of the Death Star, where the surface of Scarif was verdant and green and full of life, a time when Stormtroopers bickered over their comlinks as they discussed the latest operational procedures and the roar of the shield-gate’s TIE fighters resounded through the azure skies overhead. She had been to Scarif only twice before this deployment, and already a part of her missed what the garrison once was. That part of Malora wished she could return to that moment, but there was nothing left of the Citadel she once remembered. 

And,for the first time since Sharyn’s return to the  _ Avenger _ , Malora allowed herself time to mourn. Not just for those who had been killed at the hands of the Rebels who had decimated Commander Tarakan’s patrol,  _ her _ patrol, but for those who had been murdered by the Death Star.  **** The Citadel’s garrison had been killed without mercy, reduced to ashes without a chance to evacuate themselves to safety. 

And from the ashes of those innocent men and women, Malora told herself, would rise the safety and security of Palpatine’s glorious Empire. 

The thought of the cost in Imperial lives frightened Malora, but she could not say so to her men. They needed her, Sharyn needed her, so she could not show them any weakness. She pressed on in silence, moving quietly ahead of the rest of the patrol, and she kept her eyes affixed upon the devastation ahead of her. 

“Our rebel went this way,” she announced over her com, gesturing at the partially opened hatchway. “We have her now.”    
  
Vero cocked his head. “How do you reckon that, Captain?”   
  
“It’s simple,” Malora replied softly. “We have this position surrounded, and there’s nowhere else for her to go.”

“Are you quite certain, Ma’am?” he asked her. “Our sensors haven’t picked up any sign of the intruder. Even if we did, there’s no way she survived that fall.”   
  
Malora shook her head. “First thing you need to know about the Rebels, Trooper Horne, is that they’re tenacious. What you say is impossible tends to be challenging for them, but give them enough time and resources and they’ll find a way to accomplish their goal.”

“You’re saying there’s a possibility she survived her descent into the tunnels, Ma’am?” 

Malora nodded.

“So how do we stop her then, if she’s so resourceful?” Vero asked.    
  
“That should be simple, trooper,” Malora replied softly. “We send half of the squad down to confirm her death, one way or the other. The second platoon will remain on the surface to ambush her if she tries to escape using the same route.”   
  
“Are we to take prisoners, if we encounter her?” Vero asked.    
  
“You are authorized to do so, but I suspect she won’t consider such things,” Malora replied. “If you want the best chance of surviving down there, I suspect you keep your rifle on full charge unless I give the order.” She slammed a fresh power pack into the magazine of her blaster, and there was a loud electronic hum as the weapon accepted its fresh ammunition.   
  
“I understand, Ma’am,” Vero replied. 

“Let’s go, then,” Malora said, beckoning to the rest of the squad. “First platoon, remain here. Second platoon on me.” 

Vero said nothing as he clicked his rifle’s glow rod to the ‘on’ position and followed his commander down the hatchway.   
  
***   
Malora Dessyk didn't want to die. Not for the Emperor, not for the Empire, and not for anyone else. The realization brought color to her cheeks and she felt grateful for the glossy while armor that protected her body and concealed her features. The men around her were veteran stormtroopers, some of whom had survived the Battle of Scarif, and, if it weren't for her helmet, would have seen the fear in her eyes. 

As she stepped down the ladder into the bunker, Malora felt an ice-cold hand grab hold of her stomach. She forced herself to stand, brushed some debris clear of her armor, and wondered when the fighting would start. The rebel should have reacted by now, should have opened fire with everything she had, but nothing had happened. Why? Or, better yet, why not? Maybe she had collapsed. Maybe the garrison troopers had dealt with her already. Perhaps she was being overcautious, letting her past experiences on Fest dictate her actions? She couldn’t say for sure. 

The hand released her stomach for a moment and she forced herself to brush the thoughts out of her mind as he shuffled towards the hatch. The lighting of the bunker was tenuous at best, and even though the entire platoon had spent two days aboard  _ Avenger _ acclimating to surface conditions, it took time to adjust. Beside her, she watched Sergeant Zaafa snap to attention as he made his report. 

"All troops have deployed, Ma’am - no sign of opposition." 

For a moment, Malora wondered what was taking place behind the dark gray lenses and white armor. How much did Zaafa know? Did he have any idea how frightened her commanding officer was? How close to crumbling? There was no way to tell. But one thing was for sure, she would need the sergeant to keep order once the fighting began. 

"Thank you, Sergeant,” Malora replied, in the crisp, matter-of-fact manner she had learned at the Academy. “Let's get on with it."

Zaafa nodded an affirmative, motioning with his left hand to the rest of the platoon while using his right to key open the hatch. "Agreed. Platoon, on me." 

Malora stepped out of the hatch first, followed by Zaafa and Vero. Dust fountained up around her boots and seemed to fall in slow motion around her. The hallway was dark, but the glow-rods from her troopers’ rifles provided plenty of illumination. They moved along in formation: Malora and Zaafa in front, with the other three troopers marching line-abreast behind them. Ideally, the troopers in the rear would cover those in front, suppressing any approaching Rebels or lending covering fire as the squad advanced. The whole thing looked like a text-book scenario, which added to Malora’s confidence. Maybe, just maybe, she and her men would survive. 

Debris from the upper levels had been loosened by the Death Star’s impact and had fallen onto the walkway in front of the patrol, which provided the squad with an excellent source of cover. Malora, more from curiosity than bravado, remained standing. The electrobinoculars provided magnification and range as she scanned the emptiness in front of her for traces of the fugitive. Intel's best guess was that the Rebel was trying to reach a communications relay, in order to make contact with her surviving comrades. 

Cautiously, she turned to Zaafa. "Send the scouts. Tell them to keep a sharp eye out. This place is too krarking quiet." 

Zaafa, who privately agreed, gave the necessary orders. "Sutu, Horne, Dobbs, get up there and take a look. We saw the rebel disappear into these tunnels - find her. Dergan, Telcor, Sefta, move up to our position and cover them."

“Roger that.”   
  
Malora lifted her electrobinoculars again and scanned the area. In spite of the fact that everything looked normal - it didn't feel normal - and that was what bothered her, both because she'd been trained to make fact based decisions, and because the feeling was so strong. It felt as though someone, something, was watching. But the reports said otherwise. 

_ "This is Horne - a lot more debris ahead of us, nothing else. No sign of the escaped Rebel. Over." _

_ "Dobbs - ditto. Over."  _

_ "Sutu - looks clear. Over."  _

Malora gestured to the squad and they advanced forward, weapons at the ready. 

“Over there!” The voice of Dobbs resounded through the corridor, and Malora turned in that direction. An open vent stood in front of her, its grating removed and set aside. From what Malora could tell, whoever had entered the vent had attempted to replace the cover, but failed to properly secure it.

The sound of movement clattering through the vent alerted Malora, and she turned to her sergeant.

“I think we found our rebel,” she said.

“Open fire!” Zaffa ordered.

Streaks of crimson lit up the open vent as the Stormtroopers commenced fire. The Rebel dodged the shots, returning a sporadic spray of blaster fire in return. Clamoring out of the vent, she made a bee-line towards the hatchway behind her, hitting Sutu squarely in the chest as she went. The trooper screamed as she fell, and Malora felt a wave of anger replace her fear as she emptied her power-pack in the Rebel’s direction. The harmless deflection of her shots informed her that the woman had absconded with a personal shield unit, and she ordered her men to concentrate their fire. With any luck, her troopers would be able to overload the generator and short it out. 

Dobbs was the first of her troopers to score a direct hit on the shield, but his celebration was short lived as a flickering vibro-blade cut him down mid-reload. Vero, the last of the forward scouts, retreated back towards the firing line, skirting along the walls to avoid his companions’ fire. The Rebel pressed onward. She moved like a shadow, floating through the blaster fire as though she could see it coming. Her own weapon blazed with fury, sending a spray of blaster bolts careening down the hallway towards Malora’s troops. 

“Fall back!” Malora ordered. Her troopers obeyed at once, racing back down the narrow hallway towards the hatch. She and Zaffa led the retreat, encouraging the others as they fled the approaching Rebel agent. Whoever she was, the rebel had little regard for Imperial lives. She dodged the Stormtroopers’ fire, pressing her advance towards her objective without hesitation or restraint. 

_ “Don’t let her get away!” _ she heard Vero shout, before his words were drowned out by another spray of stray blaster bolts. Malora glanced behind her as two more troopers collapsed, and she flinched as another memory of the ambush on Fest flickered through her mind. A curse filled her mouth, and she forced herself to retrain her focus on the present as she took aim at the Rebel and fired another spray of shots in her direction.

She watched Vero reach for the panel, heard the door hiss open, only to stop part way. Her heart seemed to stop in her chest, and she lowered her rifle for a moment. 

“Ma’am! Look!” Zaafa gasped. Malora turned her head, looking in his direction. A momentary terror passed through her as she realized what had happened, and as the Rebel drew closer, she recognized the urgency of the situation.

The hatch was jammed. Malora and her troopers were trapped, at the mercy of the battered rebel approaching them.

Three troopers from Second Platoon had descended the ladder and formed a fire-base at the bottom of the hatchway. Malora beckoned to them through the hatchway, and they moved to aid her. Vero slung his rifle and took hold of the door, and together he and Malora attempted to maneuver it back into position. Dergan, Telcor, and Sefta, along with Sergeant Zaafa, covered them, sending even more blaster fire in the direction of the approaching rebel. It was no use. One after another, they fell to her blaster fire, and Malora prepared her mind for the coming end. She convinced herself it would not be long, and she comforted herself with the knowledge that Sharyn and the rest of her former squad would live to avenge her death.

The end, however, did not come. 

After a few moments, the hatch finally slid open. Relieved, Malora and her surviving troopers stumbled through the opening into the bunker. The Stormtroopers re-formed ranks and moved towards the ladder, intending to concentrate fire and stop the Rebel in her tracks. Her shields were weakening; the rebels steps were beginning to stutter as less of the force of the impact was deflected away. It would only be a matter of time before they failed completely, and she could taste victory on her lips. She would avenge her fallen friends, avenge Sharyn’s injuries, avenge the Empire…   
  
The sound of clattering armor interrupted her thoughts. The troopers from Second Platoon had been forced to retreat, and one of them had fallen victim to the rebel’s fire. As the last of the rebel’s shots struck against the ceramacrete of the bunker, Malora paused for a moment to consider the identity of the woman who had shot them down. She could come to no conclusions, however, and turned her attention back to the pursuit.

The Rebel had escaped her grasp momentarily, but she would not last long. Malora reached for her wrist com. With any luck, Tarakan’s reinforcements were already en-route.   



	29. Chapter Twenty-Five

**Chapter Twenty-Five**

Jyn ran, and she didn’t dare to look back.

The pursuing Stormtroopers fired at her, and she felt her personal shield shudder as a series of blaster bolts struck home. An alarm blared out a warning, and she chanced a glance down at the interface on her wrist. The green shield indicator on the left side of her HUD grew fainter, registering at thirty percent and dropping fast.

One foot slipped on a loose slab of ceramacrete, and Jyn tumbled down the slope away from her pursuers. She rolled away from the bunker out of control, the world around her transforming into a blur as momentum carried her away from the Imperials. Unfortunately, the personal shield didn’t protect from physical impacts, and she felt the full impact of her landing as she slammed against the ground.

Frantically, Jyn reached for her weapons. Her blade and rifle had been knocked out of her hands, and she crawled towards them, attempting to outstretch her bruised and battered arms towards them. They were just out of reach, however, and she lay her head face down against the cratered ground as her body resigned itself to the maelstrom of exhaustion which seemed to surround her.

“Kriff it all,” she whispered, feeling around her utility belt a second time with her good arm. No use, there were no bandages. Why didn’t she pack more –

Too late now, she told herself, cutting off the thought before she could conclude it. Maybe if she could make it to one of the landing platforms, she could find a shuttle or a transport where she could find something to bandage her wounds. A med-kit, the cover of a seat, the uniform of a fallen soldier.

Anything.

Another alarm blared on her wrist display, and Jyn leaned against a blown-out wall of ceramacrete, gasping heavily for breath. She could feel herself getting sluggish – the ash in the air, the blood loss, the exhaustion; she hadn’t slept or rested in a while, and hadn’t had much to eat since she’d left Cassian to go off on her own.

She couldn’t really blame Cassian for not being able to contact her after they got separated – he himself was probably fighting for his life and unable to reach his com – but she couldn’t help but feel a little bitter about her fate. While she had always expected to die in battle, she’d hate to join the scores of dead littered across Scarif’s desolate surface, all those less-fortunate bastards who hadn’t been shielded from the full effects of the Death Star’s superlaser. When the world seemed to be constantly ending around you and there were so many spectacular ways to die around every corner, slowly bleeding to death in the bombed-out ruins of an Imperial security complex seemed a little… disappointing.

And, without wanting to brag, she wasn’t usually in any danger of that happening. Jyn had been fighting for most of her life, and she usually considered herself more than competent at keeping herself alive. But even she had to admit the situation was not ideal. She had sustained numerous injuries since the beach, and, while she had tried her hardest to patch herself up between battles, she could feel the effects of all her combined injuries starting to wear her down. She had to heal, had to find someplace to recover from her wounds. And, considering the relentless pursuit of the Stormtroopers behind her, she figured the odds of finding such a place were likely slim at best.

Still, there was at least some chance she could make it. If there was something to use as a fresh bandage in one of the wrecked vehicles, if she could restock her food and water and ammunition – and if it was dry enough so she could rest there for a while without the troopers overwhelming her…

Too many variables, Jyn thought to herself. She knew that, she just chose to ignore it. She wasn’t going to just give up. There was still hope for her to somehow, a light at the end of the cave guiding her out of the darkness, and if she had any chance of reaching it, she was going to do her best to take it.

She gritted her teeth and pulled herself to her feet beside the ruins near the hatchway, fighting not to make any noise. Her injured arm trembled as she clutched her bloodied vibroblade, sending ripples of pain throbbing through the rest of her weary body. Karabast, this was not promising –

“You’ll be fine,” Jyn reassured herself; whether she was referring to herself or to Cassian she could not entirely tell. She was still a good shot, and she’d managed to find enough ammunition off the dead Stormtroopers in the bunker to sustain her weapon a little longer. All she had to do was make it a few more kilometers to reach the disabled Imperial shuttle, and then – how far was it? How long would it take her to get back to the rendezvous point once she had managed to put herself back together? How long would it take for Cassian to reach her again, assuming he had made back to her?

Her feet sloshed through the murky puddles of rainwater, uncomfortably loud in the desolate, empty air. A pile of collapsed rubble loomed directly in front of her, shielding her nicely from view of any approaching Stormtroopers. She peered out from behind it, clutching her blaster tightly in one hand, the other clutching tightly at the hilt of her vibro-blade. A few derelict speeders and Stormtrooper transports lined the cratered remains of the landing pad; while they were completely useless for transport, they could easily serve as more than suitable cover. If the troopers saw her, she’d have to start shooting, she was too slow on her feet and exhausted to get into melee range, but if she could just duck behind those wrecked transports, maybe she’d be fine even if there was someone out there…

A muscle in her thigh was twitching, but the leg carried her weight when she slowly edged past the pile of rubble and out onto what was left of the landing pad. The surface of the platform looked clear, and she couldn’t hear anything but the drip-drip-drip of the rainwater splashing its way onto the surface of the pad.

The durasteel plates of the landing platform creaked underneath her feet when she stepped off the porch onto the street, heart throbbing uncomfortably in her throat. Her head was still swimming slightly; she was starting to wonder if she’d hit her head harder than she’d thought. The sound of her steps in the water on the durasteel was messing with her too; she could have sworn she’d seen something out of the corner of her eye, but when she whipped around, there was nothing there and it only made her head spin worse.

“Kriff it all,” she murmured again, gripping her blaster more tightly, and ducked behind the nearest of the ruined crates on the platform. She was never going to make it back to Cassian at this rate, not with –

“Drop your weapons!” The familiar sound of approaching Stormtroopers surrounded her, and she hesitated for a moment. She ducked lower, checking her ammunition. Fifty-two shots left in this power pack. Enough to take on most of a squad, but not nearly enough to handle the forces that were currently after her.

There was a scream, followed by a loud clatter. Jyn lifted her head, just in time to see the body of a Stormtrooper clatter onto the platform.

She paused, half-frozen in terror, as the sound of footsteps approached her. She glanced up, half expecting to find herself surrounded by more Stormtroopers.

“Don’t shoot, Jyn! It’s me!”

Her brain took decidedly too long to match the strained voice to what she was looking at past the sights on her rifle. Cautiously, she peered out from behind the crate, expecting to find more stormtroopers.

Instead, she found Cassian.

She let out a cry of excitement and ran to him, letting him take her in his arms.

“What are you doing here?” she finally managed, her blaster still levelled.

Cassian scoffed, wrenched his knife from the Stormtrooper’s neck with some effort and stepped over the body. “It’s good to see you alive, Jyn.”

“Jyn. He’s only called me that when he’s concerned about me. On Jedha, on Eadu, here on Scarif, that’s when he’s called to me by name. And always so urgently, like he’s concerned or...”

She broke off the thought, her eyes sweeping their way through the billowing dust to meet her companion’ expression. He looked bad, somehow even more gaunt than usual, pale and jumpy, with something almost manic sitting in his eyes. He was drenched to the bone, too; as if he’d also been caught in the pouring rain.

“Are you –“He gripped her shoulder, so tightly it hurt. “Jyn. Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, Captain,” she replied blearily, then, when he didn’t stop looking at her so intently: “Though I’ll admit, I’ve been better.”

His dark eyes were still darting over her face, a grim little twitch around his mouth. “Let’s get you out of here. You found what you came for?”

“A map of the complex? I did, along with a lot more. Did you manage to find Kaytu?”

Cassian sighed. “The K-X droid that I located in the ruins was holding this.” He presented the twisted remains of the blaster pistol that the droid had been carrying, and Jyn let out a little smile. “I’m no Stormtrooper, but I don’t remember the Empire issuing blaster pistols to their security droids.”

“I didn’t see any other security droids carrying one of these either,” Jyn confirmed. “I think you found the right droid.”

“That’s a relief,” Cassian sighed. “I’m hopeful there’s a computer terminal we can use to access his files.”

“I managed to find one, but the Imps managed to take it out when I got out of the complex.”

“Hold on,” Cassian interrupted. “Are you saying you were right about the underground complex?”

Jyn nodded. “It’s as large as you originally predicted.”

“Damn,” Cassian replied. With a sigh, he reached into his utility pack and handed her a canteen. “Drink up, I have more.”

“I’m fine.”

“Drink, Jyn,” he said flatly, his hand still on her shoulder, almost like he’d forgotten about it. His touch was light now, and his hand was warm through her damp shirt. It felt nice. Comforting.

She’d clearly hit her head very hard. She took a few gulps of water and handed him the canteen back with a terse smile.

“We should get moving. I was followed, and the Imperials have probably alerted their garrison troops by now. Can you walk?”

Jyn grimaced. “Yeah. For the most part. I’ve been shot to hell though. I don’t know how I’ve survived half of what I went through.”

“That’s not the only thing,” She gave him a look of genuine relief and tugged her good arm around his shoulders without another word.

***

Cassian felt a warm sensation fill his body as Jyn clung to him, and he smiled comfortingly as she returned his embrace. As an Intelligence agent, he was unaccustomed to displaying his emotions so openly, but felt a vast surge of protective tenderness for the woman in his arms. He could not say for certain why he felt that way. Perhaps it was because he had become co-dependent upon Jyn for their mutual survival since they had arrived on Scarif; after all it had been her connection to the Force that had spared their lives from the Death Star’s lethal blast. The two of them had, by virtue of mutual necessity, become reliant upon one another, and he needed her to survive, just as she needed him. She had become his closest and most trusted remaining ally in this desolate place, and he could no more abandon her to the Empire than he could one of his own Pathfinders. Of course, he reminded himself, Jyn Erso was totally unlike the Alliance agents he usually associated with, but still—

He pressed himself more firmly against her, brushing her tear-streaked cheek with one finger and holding her tightly against him while he tried his best to comfort her. He could feel the burden of her fear and pain ease as he held her in his arms and sensed her surprised awareness that he was somehow responsible. He nudged her cheek more firmly, then pulled back just far enough to touch his nose to hers, staring deep into her dark green eyes, and her good hand brushed lightly against his hair. Though he had no innate connection within the Force, he understood from the glow of Jyn’s kyber crystal that this mystical power was reaching out to him through her, and he did not hesitate as he clasped the crystal- and her hand- in his.

Jyn shook herself. Her head felt very foggy – damn it, she hadn’t said any of those things out loud, had she? Had she? He couldn’t know. He couldn’t know, no matter what they had both been through– Jyn didn’t care if the odds were against her, Cassian could not know how much time she’d spent thinking about him since the two of them had separated. He’d be nice about it, too, probably. He’d be gracious and he’d probably feel bad for her. And she wasn’t going to take his pity; he had saved her life far too often and she wasn’t about to owe him for being nice about her useless feelings as well.

She tried to pull her hand away, but he just gripped it firmer.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, with a pained look in his eyes. “I should have tried to contact you sooner. The Imperials cut me off before I could reach the com. I hope you weren’t too worried about me.”

She blinked her eyes a few times, trying to clear them, and shook her head. “No, I’m fine. We have more pressing things to worry about at the moment. Right now, we have to get back into that bunker.”

“I agree,” Cassian muttered.

“Why’d you come here?” Jyn asked after a moment, voicing a thought that was only half-formed in her head.

There was a new look on his face now, a very different kind of desperation, just for a second, then it was gone. But there was a little catch to his voice somewhere when he replied softly: “I would have thought my intentions were obvious.”

She felt like there was something she wasn’t clued in on here, something that she was much too light headed to take a closer look at. She shook her head (bad idea, more dizziness) and said: “No, like… why here? This isn’t where we agreed to meet.”

He scoffed, that strange look still not quite gone from his eyes. “Yes. You’re welcome.”

“What?”

Cassian shook his head, looking at her like she’d gone insane. “I could hear the blaster fire, and that honed me in on your location. I wasn’t just going to leave you out here.”

“You could’ve died.”

Another grim nod, then, while he busied himself pulling her arm around his shoulders again, so quiet she wasn’t sure if he’d really said it: “Like that would matter, Jyn. We’re all we have left out here-you and me and Kaytu. If anything happens, it happens to all of us.”

For a moment, she was tempted not to reply – she’d clearly not been meant to hear it in the first place. It didn’t mean anything… except this was Cassian. She had come to know him on Jedha and Eadu and Yavin and Scarif, and he, in turn, had opened himself to her. It was as if, in a way she didn’t fully understand, she somehow knew what the world looked like to him, how his mind worked, how he perceived his duty and his mission and those around him. She had learned much from him during their time together – and if he was making a joke, she had a feeling she would know.

“’Course it matters,” she said, and it came out a little more forcefully than intended.

He glanced at her in confusion for a moment, and she pulled him down to her level for a moment, ignoring her low ammunition and exhaustion and hunger and the thousand other thoughts that were currently racing through her head. Taking a deep breath, she spoke to him, her words utterly sincere.

“It matters that you could’ve died, Cassian.”

He looked away with a scoff and tugged her arm into place. “No, not really. I’m one soldier for the Rebellion. They’ve already replaced me by now.”

“Yes, of course it –“

“I wouldn’t have lasted a week without you, so… not really.”

Now it was her turn to laugh. “And I wouldn’t have lasted without you.”

“Trust goes both ways,” he gave back, in a tone that was a little too bitter to make it the joke he was aiming for.

She wasn’t quite sure what that was supposed to mean, and probably couldn’t blame that on her head injury. There was a conversation they were dancing around here – one that, sometimes, for a split second, she maybe wanted to have. But that was insane, because this was literally the apocalypse, they were fighting for their lives and people died all the time and… and well, even if all of that wasn’t happening, she didn’t want this conversation, not now, at least. She’d rather hang in this odd in-between space, than risk having the conversation and saying something that would push him away. And she probably would, somehow.

“Let’s just get out of here, okay?” she said, fingers digging into the gaps between the plates of the Stormtrooper armor he had scavenged.


	30. Chapter Twenty-Six

It was a long walk back to the ridge overlooking the bunker. Jyn's injuries throbbed with pain, and she forced herself to cling to Cassian as the two of them limped their way back towards their objective. The rain had begun to fall more heavily now, more of the vaporized sea-water pouring down from the thick cloud cover overhead, and she felt her boots stick heavily amidst the mud as the two of them trod their way through the desolation. 

For the first time since their resurrection on the beach, Jyn truly allowed herself to hope. The entrance to the cave within her thoughts still lingered in front of her, a seemingly inescapable obstacle which still threatened to consume her thoughts even as she clawed and grasped towards the surface. Only the caverns didn't seem quite so dark anymore, the winding passages far less confusing and intimidating. With Cassian beside her, she had a guide through the darkness, someone who could take her hand and lead her through the dark maze of her pain and fear. 

In the moment when she was alone, lost in the darkness of the bunker beneath their feet, Cassian's voice had still echoed in her mind, reminding her of his promise to return to her, of his determination to see both of them off of Scarif's desolated surface. His undying faith in her plan had guided him to Scarif, and her faith in him had kept them alive - and together - even as the shadow of the Empire threatened to tear their bond asunder. She had no reason to doubt him now, Jyn told herself with growing confidence. Unlike Saw Gerrera and the others in her life before him, Cassian had never once lost sight of Jyn, had never once doubted that she had at least some sort of plan, some means of accomplishing what she set out to achieve.

They were one with the Force, the Force was with them.  His faith carried her with him. Her faith carried him with her.

They were connected now, their destinies crossed by the same power which had preserved them from oblivion. Jyn found herself growing more and more convinced that the Force had, in its infinite wisdom, intertwined their fates together. There was little reason for Jyn to consider these thoughts as anything less than substantiated facts now. The frightened girl in the cave still tried to whisper to her, tried to tell her that all bonds of friendship and alliance would have to eventually end. Yet even as the shadows of doubt lingered over her, she reminded herself that Cassian had been the one constant through the many ordeals she had so recently faced, the one part of these recent days which had not changed significantly. He started the mission to Scarif as a resolute commander of the Rebellion, and he had retained that mindset even to the point of death.

Yet, even as she was certain of Cassian's loyalties to the Alliance, she became even more certain of his loyalty to _her_. Even when the two of them had been separated, he had never once forgotten her, as so many others in her past had done. He had remembered her, and he had endeavored to protect and defend that memory of her even at the risk of his own life. It was as though, a part of herself whispered to her, he had come to see her as more than just his subordinate officer, more than simply his comrade and his friend. In fact, from the way he had looked at her in the turbolift during their descent from the Citadel tower, Jyn was more than a little convinced that there was a sense of _longing_ behind those hardened brown eyes.

It was almost as if...

Cassian shoved her head down before she could finish her thought. “Do you see that?”

“What is it?” Jyn cocked her head at him. The two of them ducked behind a mound of ceramacrete, and Cassian pointed into the distance, where a few faint white figures were cutting through the mist towards them.

“It Looks like an Imperial patrol, or what’s left of it. I can see a Stormtrooper transport, a squad of infantry, and…” He cut the sentence off, taking a deep breath and reaching for his quadnocs.

“Cassian? What is it?” Jyn's expression narrowed, and she gestured for the quadnocs. Cassian handed them to her without a moment's hesitation, and she scanned the horizon in the direction in which he had pointed.

“We have a problem. The Imps brought an AT-ST walker.”

“I see it,” Jyn responded, shifting her view slightly to get a better view of the vehicle. 

“And any attempt to stop that thing or get back to the bunker would result in a massacre. We're going to die if we even think about breaking cover." Cassian gave her a rueful glance as he replaced his rifle’s Tibanna gas cartridge and slammed home another power pack into the magazine. “If that thing detects us, we have no hope of escape.” 

"What are you talking about, Cassian?" Jyn asked, as she readied her own vibroblade and rifle for the coming attack, "We’ve been more outnumbered than this and we still managed to pull it off. Besides, there’s always hope. Rebellions are built…" 

Cassian shook his head but continued to smile, “It’s a nice sentiment, Jyn, but it won’t save our lives. We’d be crossing open ground to even get to the walker. Even if we could, we don’t have any weapons capable of destroying it. I don’t like to say this, but we won’t stand a chance if that thing detects us." 

Jyn still looked skeptical as she turned to face her companion. "Those AT-STs are not the end of all things, Cassian. As a Partisan, I faced far larger armored vehicles with only a brace of thermals, if we can use the terrain to our advantage, somehow get behind it...." 

“The Imperials won’t make it that simple, Jyn. That walker commander knows we’re alone, and that we don’t have the weapons to bring it down. He’s going to do everything in his power to stop us from getting close enough to throw a detonator at him. Even if we could, that infantry transport and the Stormtroopers are going to make it difficult to get more than one detonator off, and I know from experience it’ll take more than that to bring it down. No, Jyn, this isn’t a fight we can win.”

“We have to do something,” Jyn objected. “The Imps aren’t just going to let us waltz back to the bunker without any resistance.”

“I know, Jyn,” Cassian told her. “But without heavy weapons, I don’t know what we could do to stop the walker from incinerating us on contact.” 

“Unless…” Jyn muttered, gesturing for the quadnocs, “We don’t waltz up to the walker at all. You’re an intelligence agent, aren’t you?”

Cassian nodded. “What does that have to do with us getting to safety?”

She gestured towards the hover-transport resting beside the AT-ST in the distance. “Do you know the specs on that transport? Specifically, its weaponry?”

“A pair of light laser cannons and a dorsal turret. Why, what are you thinking?”

“Maybe we don’t have to attack that walker ourselves,” Jyn reasoned. “We could try to get aboard that transport, then use its firepower to take out the AT-ST while sheltering ourselves inside?” 

“Smart move,” Cassian muttered. “Only problem is keeping the walker from taking out the transport before we can slip aboard.” 

Jyn shook her head, astonished at the thought. “Do you really think the Empire would be that ruthless? Killing their own men just to stop  _ two _ of us?”

“These are the same people who wasted the Citadel with the Death Star,” Cassian reminded her. “That sort of thinking shouldn’t surprise you anymore. You’ve seen their treachery first-hand, and so have I. If it keeps them from losing any more of their classified information, these people will do whatever it takes.” 

“You have a point,” Jyn replied. “What are our options?”

“We’ll need some sort of diversion. Something to keep the AT-ST focused while we slip aboard.”

“What do you have in mind? We don’t exactly have your Pathfinders to back us up this time.” 

“You said there was a weapons locker down below, where you found that shield generator. Were there any heavy munitions inside? Rocket launchers, rail detonators, anything of the sort?” 

“Nothing I could easily carry out myself. The detonators were the only thing I could maneuver up the ladder. That and a single concussion rifle.” She unslung the larger weapon and placed it on the ground in front of Cassian, who eyed it carefully for a moment. 

“That will distract the walker, but it won’t bring it down,” Cassian told her. “We’ll need it disabled if we’re going to have any chance of getting to the transport.” 

Jyn thought for a moment. “When I was a Partisan, I remember facing these walkers before. Saw always placed his men on uneven ground, to obstruct them from walking. There’s plenty of rubble around here, so if we keep to cover, we should be able to buy ourselves a little time.”

“I’ll provide the distraction, Jyn. I have experience with that sort of concussion rifle. Besides, after what you did to their garrison, they’ll be expecting you more than they will me.” 

She shook her head instantly. “And what happens if the walker manages to you? Maybe a Mandalorian in full Beskar plate could survive that sort of impact, but neither of us could. If anyone should provide the distraction it should be me. I have less to lose than you do.” 

“I don’t believe that, Jyn. Besides, you’re better in close-combat than I am, and someone will need to take out those troopers.”

***   
The first of the Stormtroopers opened up as Jyn leapt into the midst of them from the pile of ceramacrete she had used for a makeshift barricade. A swift movement of her vibroblade cut through the first trooper, followed shortly thereafter by the second. She moved like some sort of predator, striking without warning, giving her adversaries little time to strike. 

Two more Imperials commenced fire from behind their vehicle, and she heard the personal shield unit wail with alarm as the impacts registered. Ignoring the blasts, she incapacitated the first trooper with a burst of blaster fire, spinning around with a deft stroke of her blade to slash between the other man’s armored plates as he attempted to retreat. She could hear her heart pounding in her chest, felt her stamina begin to give out from nearly three hours of constant fighting, and she wanted to hesitate. Her injuries flared with sudden pain, and she paused for a moment, staggering for footing as a moment of weakness swept through her. 

One of the troopers, seizing the opportunity, lunged towards her, grappling her around the waist and pulling her off her feet. A vibroblade flashed amidst the transport’s lights, and Jyn felt a sudden lance of pain slash across her shoulder. The wound registered on her HUD as shallow and non-lethal, but it still hurt terribly, and she cried out in a mingled mixture of pain and rage as she rammed her own blade into the Imperial’s throat and pulled it free. The man collapsed against the muddy ground, his throat ripped violently open, and Jyn felt an odd satisfaction in the kill. 

Terrified by the sight of their companion’s death, the remaining Stormtroopers backed away, watching as a bloodied and battered Jyn Erso crept towards them, a menacing fury in her eyes. She felt nothing in particular as they died, and the slaughter once again collapsed into repetitive, mind-numbing madness. One after another the Stormtroopers came towards her, and one after another they died. There was no withstanding her assault. She weaved and dodged and plunged about in the very midst of their company, offering no quarter, her battered and exhausted body numb to exhaustion and pain and fear. She pictured Cassian in the back of her mind, outnumbered and outgunned, making his stand against an enemy he could not defeat, and the very possibility of his loss sent her mind into a frenzy. There was no humanity left in the Imperials she killed. She did not pause to look into the faces of her enemies as their helmets clattered to the ground, she saw only Krennic’s face, Krennic, the monster who had killed her father and her mother and taken her friends away from her. She forced herself to imagine it was Krennic she was killing, for the thought of the truth was a haunting and terrible alternative. 

A blast from one of the dead Stormtroopers’ rifles forced the hatch of the transport open, and Jyn wiped the blood from her hands as she made her way inside. Two blasts dispatched the transport’s crew, and she paid the dead gunner no heed as she gripped the firing handles and clambered into the gunner’s position, sweeping the turret around to search for some trace of the AT-ST.

That, and Cassian.

***   
The walker fared better on the uneven terrain than Cassian anticipated, but he did not hesitate as he loaded another magazine of power cells into the concussion rifle and locked onto its left leg. He fired quickly, sending the blast careening towards the AT-ST, and he shook off his disappointment as the blast merely glanced off of the vehicle’s heavy armor.

Cassian had no doubts that Jyn had successfully taken the troop transport. The sounds of distant blaster fire were more than enough to confirm her victory, for they grew gradually more sporadic as the moments passed. He also had little doubt that Jyn would soon be back to reinforce him, for he had heard the transport’s blaster cannons opening up, presumably to take out the last of the Stormtroopers.

The second transport changed things. If it managed to reach Jyn before she completed her mission, neither of them would be able to escape.

He reached for the comlink and sent his companion a warning as the Imperial reinforcements drew closer.   
***   
Jyn grimaced as a blast of reverberating energy punched through the Imperial transport's shields and triggered a cacophony of alarms. She returned fire in exchange, gunned the repulsors to urge the transport forward, and redoubled her efforts. Twin lines of blaster fire converged on the second transport’s command module and something exploded. A flare of bright orange light frosted the area as debris soared and tumbled away from the smoldering hulk of the transport. Denied their heavy support, the approaching Imperials hesitated, watching in horror as their comrades burned away.

The AT-ST’s driver, horrified by what she'd seen, and more than a little frightened, ordered a retreat. She was a little too late. Jyn, her eyes narrowed with determination, renewed her fire.

The walker’s exposed knee joint made an excellent target. The AT-ST wobbled for a moment, lifted one leg, and then began to collapse, its left hip joint badly disabled by the heavy spray of blaster fire. Yet even as it faltered, the Imperial vehicle was far from completely neutralized. Jyn had very little time to comprehend this fact before something resounded through the darkness. She heard a clattering sound in front of the transport, followed by a residual mechanical beeping.

The last thing she recalled before the darkness claimed her was the sound of the concussion grenade blasting through the transport’s shields.


	31. Chapter Twenty-Seven

Cassian’s heart pounded in his chest as he picked up the glowing vibro-blade from the slain AT-ST pilot, powering it down and tucking it back into the scabbard on the trooper’s belt. He would come back for it, he decided. For now, though, there were more important things to attend to. 

Like Jyn, for instance, he reminded himself. 

He flushed the dust out of his eyes as he crawled towards the wreckage of the Stormtrooper transport, ignoring the throbbing of his own injuries and the sudden wave of exhaustion that now swept through every muscle of his body. She lay face-down in the midst of a pile of collapsed ceramacrete and mangled durasteel beams, her body spasming in agony. When he at last reached her, he lifted her prone figure across his lap and cradled her in his arms, feeling desperately, beyond all hope, for some sort of pulse. 

He felt a faint throbbing after a moment, and he allowed himself a moment of relief. At least she was alive, though for how much longer he couldn’t know. Drawing his utility blade, he cut away the tattered fabric of her shirt and bandages to inspect the terrible wound that ran across one side of her body. 

“Jyn!” He screamed her name, not caring if anyone heard him. He would risk compromising his position, risk capture or even death itself, if it meant that he might somehow bring Jyn Erso back to him. 

After a few moments, Jyn’s trembling form stirred in Cassian’s arms, coughing up a massive globule of blood. He cradled her close, whispering her name while he clutched her Kyber crystal in his palm and prayed that he hadn’t failed her. 

“Jyn…” he said again. This time, it wasn’t a question, but rather a simple statement.

“C-Cassian?” came her reply, faint but present nonetheless. There was a twinge of desperation in her words, and he touched her face tenderly, using his fingers to brush a streak of blood stained hair out of her eyes. 

”Jyn! Thank the Force!” The two companions started to embrace one another, but Cassian hesitated as he recalled the state of her injury. As much as he longed to hold her in his arms, he contented himself with taking her by the hand as he continued to inspect her wound.

“You did it,” she told him. “You made it back.” 

Pain throbbed through Cassian’s own battered shoulder, but he managed to force down the cry of agony building in his throat. “It wasn’t easy,” he told her softly. “But I’m here now, Jyn. I’ve got you. You’re safe now.

“I’m safe,” Jyn repeated. Cassian could see a trace of doubt fill those soft emerald eyes, so he squeezed her hand tighter as reassurance. At this, Jyn smiled even wider, but the pain soon twisted that smile into an agonizing wince. Her hands inched weakly towards her wound, and she gasped for breath, her inhalations short and staggered. 

“Shh, shh,” Cassian comforted. “You’re alright, Jyn. You’re going to be alright. But we can’t stay here. If the Imperials have sent walkers after us, that means they’ve doubled their efforts to try and locate us since we first encountered their patrol. And if they find us…” He broke off the sentence, forcing his eyes away from Jyn’s mangled side. The thought of what might come next was too much for him to bear. 

Slowly, Jyn forced herself up to a half-seated position. Her heartbeat thundered in her chest, and she looked to him for comfort, even as her body begged for a release from the agony which currently overwhelmed her. 

“Am… Am I dying, Cassian?” she asked him, her words half slurred. 

“It’s a serious enough wound,” Cassian replied somberly, wiping the sweat—or was it a tear—from his bloodied face. “If we don’t get you to safety soon, I’m afraid you will die.” He winced at how much he sounded like his own droid in that instant, and he brushed his off-hand against the memory chip still tucked into his belt to make sure Kaytu was still with him.

Jyn started to panic, and Cassian cursed himself in Festian under his breath as he did his best to stabilize her. He had seen vibro-blade injuries like this before, huge gashes that mangled the flesh and scraped the bone. But he had never seen one this devastating, and he forced the urge to vomit out of his mind. Desperately, he pressed his weight against her mangled side, doing his absolute best to stifle the flow of her bleeding. Overcome by shock and sudden pain, Jyn screamed aloud, her cries wrenching his heart. 

Jyn motioned towards the entrance to the bunker she had emerged from, and Cassian turned his head to look towards where she was pointing. “We… we should get going. The Empire… They’ll come back for us. I’m sure of it.”

Cassian shook his head. “You’re in no condition to move anywhere, Jyn. You’re badly hurt, and with the nature of your injuries, it’d be best to attend to them as best I can before you think of going anywhere.I still have med-packs from the patrol we encountered earlier, and I’m not leaving you until you’re stable enough to get to safety.”   
  
Jyn started to protest, but Cassian shook his head, cutting her off before she could voice her interjection. “Your survival is my number one priority,” he told her. “I’ll apply the basic stims and treatment needed to stabilize that cut on your side, and once you’re able to get down that ladder, we’ll shift our position back to that bunker where it’s safer and more sheltered from the elements.”

“Hold still. I’m going to clean that wound of yours now,” he reassured her, reaching for one of the medpacks he had scavenged off the dead Imperials. “This may hurt for a moment.”

Jyn nodded weakly, extending one hand weakly towards him. He clasped it tight, simultaneously applying the stim with a single motion. Jyn whimpered in pain as the medication raced through her body, and Cassian held her tight, comforting her as he applied a bacta-patch and bandage around her injured side. 

“That should keep you stable,” he told her. “I’ll apply a bacta spray in a few minutes that will heal the worst of your injury over the next few days.”

Jyn shook her head limply. “I don’t think I can do this, Cas,” she admitted, a weak moan passing through her lips. “Treatment or not, I’m currently in no condition to move. You’ll have a better chance of escaping if I’m not there to slow you down.” She pressed one hand over the blast wound that marred the left side of her face. “We drove off most of those Imperials, but I know the bastards will send more, and when they do…” She broke off the thought. Neither of them needed to know the end of that sentence.    
  
“We’ve come this far together, Jyn,” Cassian told her firmly. “I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself if I had to leave you behind again. I’ve lost enough friends already in this war, and I have no intention of losing another. Do you understand me?” 

“Look at me!” she screamed, directing Cassian’s gaze back towards her injury. “I’m dying, can’t you see that? There’s no point in wasting your time looking after me when you have yourself to protect too.  “Just leave me. Let me be.”

“What are you saying, Jyn?” 

She shook her head weakly. “I’ve been on my own long enough… I’ll be fine here. Someone heard your message. I can feel it... someone is out there...” 

“And that someone will be the Empire,” Cassian reminded her, a stony silence in his voice. “If I leave you here, the Imperials will capture you, and they will torture you for information. If you’re lucky, they’ll summarily execute you as a rebel sympathizer. If you aren’t lucky, they will publicly execute you leading an insurgency against them and broadcast your death to the entire galaxy as an example to other sympathizers.” 

Jyn cocked her head weakly. “So no one is coming?” 

Cassian lowered his head somberly. “I don’t know, Jyn. I don’t know if anyone heard my message, or if anyone is out there to help us. What I do know, however, is that I’m through fighting Draven’s war. To him, allies were expendable, assets that could be discarded at any time for the good of the mission. I used to believe that… but I don’t believe it anymore. I  _ can’t  _ believe it anymore.”   
  
“I’m in no condition to hold on,” Jyn replied weakly. “You’d be wasting your time on a forlorn hope.”

“Rebellions are built on hope, Jyn,” he reminded her, a mixture of torment and rage and desperation mingled together in his voice. “I can’t leave you behind after everything else I’ve lost. Don’t you dare give up on me!” 

“I…” She gasped desperately for air, moaning in pain and clutching at the bloody wound. “I can’t… It hurts! Force, it hurts so bad!” 

“Keep your eyes on me, Jyn,” Cassian pleaded. “Stay with me, and take my hand. Don’t you dare let go of me.” 

“I…” She inhaled, sputtering for air. “I’ll do my best.” 

"We keep fighting, remember?” he reminded her gently. “Don’t you remember saying that? 

Jyn thought for a moment. “I did?” 

“You did,” Cassian reminded her. “Back on the shuttle, before we first came here. You told us we’d fight on until either we won, or our chances were spent." 

The memories came back to her, and she managed a half-grin. “And I told you we’d find a way to win. Together.” 

“That’s right, Jyn. And both of us are still here, so I think we have a few left in us. But we won’t last long out here in the open. The sooner we get you to more permanent cover, the better. Do you know where we could possibly take shelter?”    
  
Jyn nodded, still gasping for breath. “Bunker… bottom of that ladder. We could seal it off from the outside, keep ourselves barricaded from any passing patrols. I know where there’s food and medical supplies, and we’d have a means of defending ourselves if I modified the security systems.” 

Cassian acknowledged her, but a puzzled look crossed his face. “How do you…?”   
  
The sound of approaching footsteps interrupted his inquiry. After another quick examination of Jyn’s condition, Cassian lifted her over his shoulder, reloaded his weapon, and started towards the hatchway.   
  
***   
The descent into the bunker was challenging to say the least. 

Jyn’s additional weight made it difficult for Cassian to maintain his balance, and the urgency necessitated by the approaching Imperials added an additional challenge. Yet Cassian Andor was a trained soldier. He had been conditioned to keep himself and his comrades alive in the face of the most adverse of conditions. Logic dictated that the obstacle placed before him was an impossibility. The climb would have been difficult under even ordinary circumstances, but the Force had determined that Jyn Erso would survive the Death Star, It had also chosen him to survive with her, and it was because of his connection to Jyn Erso that he resolved to succeed at any cost.    
  
When he finished the descent, Cassian swept the bunker for signs of hostile activity, as he had been trained to do. Jyn’s fight with the Imperial squad had damaged most of the computer terminals in the room, but the Stormtroopers hadn’t succeeded in taking out the manual controls, which were located in the far corner of the room next to the storage locker Jyn had described to him. After sealing both the upper hatchway and the main entrance to the base, as well as relieving the dead Stormtroopers of their arms, armor and medical supplies, he allowed himself a moment to breathe as he helped his injured companion towards one corner of the bunker. She moaned weakly as her movements jostled her injured side, and Cassian squeezed her hand, whispering reassurance as he applied more bacta and another stim to her injury. After a few moments of intense pain, she finally settled down again as the pain finally subsided.

“We’re safe for the moment,” Jyn told him. 

"Did you really mean what you said to me?"

"Did I mean what?" Cassian paused.   
  
“What you said to me, on the way back to the bunker. That you've... really needed me out there? That I've helped you, that I've...?" 

She stuttered for a moment, coughing up a globule of blood that splattered across the ceramacrete floor of the bunker. Cassian squeezed her hand tighter, applying more pressure to the ugly scar that ran down her left side. She winced in pain, tears rolling down her cheek, and he forced himself to look at her. Even in her bloodied and battered condition, there was still a fight left in her. It wasn't the fight from the defiant girl his team had rescued on Wobani, or the fight in the young woman who had single-handedly defied a squad of Stormtroopers on Jedha without a moment's hesitation. No, this was the defiance of someone who had toed the very line between life and death, someone who had lost everything and refused to lose herself as well. No longer did the darkness seem to frighten her. She did not cower before the cave which surrounded her, she instead reached for a light, pressing on into the darkness to confront whatever might await her. She was still afraid, but it was a masked and hidden fear, a subtle fear that had been carefully disguised by the urgency of the tasks before her and the desperation to protect those she held most dear. 

For a moment, Cassian did not answer her. He instead gazed down at the glowing crystal at her breast, its pale white light providing more illumination than even the bunker's own lighting. He gazed at it for a moment, wondering just how long it had been in this state. Then, carefully, he unwound the cord from around Jyn's neck and held the crystal in the palm of his hand. It flickered for a moment, the light from the complex bouncing off its many angled faces, scattering patterns across the displays around him. He watched it for a moment, unwilling, unable to pull his eyes away. 

“Your father would be proud of you, Jyn,” he said simply, unable to think of anything more to say. It was an indirect answer, but she seemed satisfied by it. One corner of her mouth twitched upwards, as if attempting to smile, and he felt her clasp his hand even more tightly, felt the pulse in her wrist throbbing as her heart attempted to compensate for the sudden loss of blood. 

“And are you… Are you proud of me?” Another pause, another desperate attempt at a smile. Cassian rested his other arm on his companion’s shoulder, pressing his head against her to keep her warm. Though the bunker was stale and cold and dark, he could feel some sort of force emanating from the crystal in his hands, as if some unseen power was somehow shielding them both from the forces that lingered just beyond its protection.

Cassian nodded. “I  _ am _ proud, Jyn. Proud to know you, proud to fight beside you, proud to call you my comrade and my friend.”   
  
“I’m surprised to hear that,” Jyn admitted. “I didn’t get that impression when we first met.”   
  
“War changes people,” Cassian replied. “It turned you, a criminal, into a soldier, and it turned me, a soldier into…” The thought trailed off.

“Into what?” Jyn asked.

I’m a spy, Jyn,” he said very, very softly. “I’m not used to sticking around for others when things go wrong.” He watched her mouth twitch again, recognizing the very words she had spoken to him on Yavin.

“And yet… you stayed behind for me. You’ve had every opportunity to get off this planet, to return to your Alliance and continue the fight, and you instead chose to stay behind for me. Me, Cassian. A girl you’ve hardly known for more than a week, a known criminal, the daughter of an Imperial agent. Why? What makes me so important that you would trade your own freedom just to ensure my safety?”    
  
He cupped her head in his hands, letting the Kyber crystal dangle beside them as he held her tenderly. Without a moment’s hesitation, his lips brushed against hers, unspeaking. He pulled her close, ignoring the blood which covered her bandaged side and the obvious bruises and scars which covered her face. He ignored his own pain and fear and anger, pushed all of Draven’s training to one side, and tightened his embrace. Jyn gave a wince of pain as his fingers pressed too firmly against the wound, and for a moment, Cassian pulled his hand away. He was astonished, however, when Jyn took hold of his hand and repositioned it lower, away from the wound.   
  
“It’s like I told you on Eadu, Jyn. Not all of us have the luxury of deciding when and where we start to care about something.”   
  
“Or someone?” Jyn asked faintly.   
  
“ Or  _ someone,”  _ Cassian repeated. “And that someone is you.” _   
_   
“Welcome home, Captain Andor,” she told him, before returning his kiss with equal passion. Her face seemed less flushed now, her cheeks less reddened by her tears. She still shuddered against him, whether it was from cold or anxiety or pain he could not tell, and he responded by pressing the Kyber crystal against her chest and holding it against her heart.    
  
“I…” she hesitated, looking both puzzled and aroused simultaneously. “I don’t know what to say.”   
  
Cassian smiled, pulling her close once more. “In that case,” he said, “you don’t need to say anything at all.”


	32. Chapter Twenty-Eight

“It’s out of the question, Ma’am! We will all die if we go down to that planet again, and you know it.” The harsh voice of Major Rakon Symons rang out through the command bridge of the  _ Liberator. _ The Major, an old, grizzled officer with a single eye, slammed his walking stick harshly against the deck plating, glaring at Commander Waska with a harsh snarl on his face.

“Are you seriously considering this course of action, Rakon?” Alik asked. “About abandoning Rebel lives to the Empire, simply because the odds are seemingly too great? We all knew the danger when we joined this operation. Every single one of us swore to see the war to its conclusion.”

“We swore to defend each other and  _ our own _ people, not those of other cells,” Symons replied coldly. “For the record, I have no intent of going anywhere, Commander. I’d be more concerned with the loyalty of these two.” He gestured towards Jan and Kyle. “The only thing keeping them here is the fact their ship is damaged. As someone who’s been held hostage before, I can assert that desperate men are willing to say anything…”   
  
“I am desperate! Desperate for someone to believe us.” Jan pleaded. “Please, Commander, the Council entrusted us with this mission. I swear we’re telling the truth.”   
  
“You’re asking us to commit lives to a major offensive against the Empire based on what?” Symons demanded. “The word of Massasi Cell? The rumors of their intelligence, the desperate pleadings of their Council? You know we don’t defer to Yavin anymore, Alik, especially on matters this sensitive. Not after they refused our distress call during that mission a year ago.”

Alik shook her head. “You’re still not over that, Major? I told you before, the time for bitterness over old wounds is over. This mission is beyond any of us. If we had stolen the Death Star plans, I’m sure Yavin would have done the same for us.”   
  
“That’s your problem, Commander. You’re blinded by the Council and her ideals, ideals which sound good in the Imperial Senate but have no place on the battlefield. As far as I am concerned, the only sane man on that council is General Draven, who has every right to distrust the rest of the Yavin Council. Politics don’t win battles, and thanks to their ‘Sergeant’ Erso, the Alliance is now at war, a war our cell is not yet prepared to fight. We owe Yavin nothing, certainly not after that failed invasion, and I will not go taking orders from some Senator across the galaxy…”    
  
“Then you’ll take your orders from  _ me _ ,” Jan demanded, slamming her fist against the holo-projector. “You don’t see it, do you? The cell on Yavin is not your enemy! The Empire is, and this is exactly what they want, exactly how they plan to divide us! There is no time to be caught up in this sort of discourse, not when lives are on the line! If Rogue One is alive down there, we need to act now!”

“You don’t have any say in this!” Symons shot back. “You aren’t one of us, and you never will be.”   
  
“And are we not all Rebels?” Kyle interjected. “Forgive my interruption, but I don’t exactly see the problem here. We all hate the Empire.”   
  
“Says the ex-Stormtrooper,” Symons sneered. “Tell me, Katarn, how many of our lives did you take before you decided to join us?”   
  
Kyle hung his head. “Too many,” he admitted, “But believe me, if I wanted your cell dead, I wouldn’t have gone through this elaborate ruse of loyalty. I would have simply reported you to that Star Destroyer and sat back while the Empire called in a battle group.”

Whispers of discourse filled the room, and Jan could see the upper echelons of command grow more and more uneasy. Symons stared into Kyle’s eyes, but he held his ground.   
  
“So you’re saying if you wanted us dead…?”   
  
“If I wanted you dead, you’d already  _ be _ dead. Besides, if I was still an Imperial agent, I wouldn’t be going after you. Forgive me for saying this, Ma’am, but as far as the Empire is concerned the cell on Yavin is of greater strategic significance than yours.”   
  
“I can’t argue that,” Alik replied. “We’re not exactly winning the war out here on our own.”   
  
“Which is precisely why we cannot afford to risk a major action at this time! You saw what the Empire did to Erso and her forces when they attempted to penetrate those defenses! Masassi Cell lost half their fleet and their entire ground complement. Now maybe that doesn’t mean much to them, being a larger, more organized resistance movement, but we don’t have those numbers. Yavin has a fleet of ships, we only have one battle-cruiser and a handful of transports and support ships. If we suffered the same losses as Erso did, we’d be losing close to three quarters of our  _ entire _ cell.”   
  
“I think you’re overestimating their strength on the surface. The Death Star softened the Imperial defenses as well,” Buc Dusqar remarked.

“And they’ll be sending for reinforcements,” Kyle said. “And unlike your cell, they’re going to have an ample supply of conscripts to draw upon.” 

“Which is why the mission you and Commander Ors have proposed to us is still suicide at best,” Miri Camasu informed him. “Even if our cell had the forces to return to Scarif and help you, the Empire is reinforcing its own garrison on the surface by the day.” She pressed a key on the holo-projector, and images of a fleet of Imperial warships appeared above the table in front of them. “Our most recent intelligence suggests that the Star Destroyer that has been guarding the system has been joined by two  _ Nebulon-B _ class frigates and two  _ Gozanti  _ class cruisers, and all of these ships are sending numerous shuttles and transports to the surface. If there are any other Rebels down there, they won’t survive for long under these conditions.”

“We can’t simply leave them down there!” Jan objected.

“I’m sorry, Commander, but we’ve just now managed to get this cell operational,” Symons told her. “We can’t risk compromising our numbers in a planetary assault based on nothing but a speculation from Yavin, lest we share the fate of Admiral Raddus and Sergeant Erso.” The man spoke Jyn’s name in a cold sneer, and Jan glared at him with ice-cold eyes as she recognized the truth in his words. The similarities between Symons and Draven was uncanny, and she blinked twice to check her vision before returning her attention to the briefing. 

“The men and women of Rogue One sacrificed their lives so that the Rebellion might have a chance to defeat the Empire,” she said calmly. “We owe it to them to recover any of their people that might be down there. The cell on Yavin has given up on them. High Command has, for the most part, moved on, turned their attention to deciphering the plans and finding a weakness in the Death Star. But some members of the Council haven’t given up. They sent us here to ask for your help so that we can bring the survivors home.” 

“No one survived that blast,” another officer remarked. “Survivors on Scarif, this is nonsense!”

Jan shook her head. “So was Sergeant Erso’s plan, but nobody says that now. You’re all too busy praising her sacrifice to consider the possibility that Rogue One might still be out there.” 

“Lieutenant Sefta is right, Commander,” Miri said softly. “As much as it pains me to admit it, it’s going to be close to impossible to find one or two survivors in the middle of the blast zone, assuming there are any. We don’t even know who to look for. The logistics of sending our cell down to the surface to save a handful of men and women don’t add up. I’m sorry,, but we just don’t have the resources to carry out that sort of operation.”

“Then I’d like to call for volunteers,” Jan said firmly. 

“If this is Yavin’s way of drawing us into their war, they’re making an awful show of it,” Sefta muttered.

“I concur,” Symons replied. “You’ll get no support from me either.”

“I’m in,” Kyle replied. “I get the feeling you’re going to need my help getting past the orbital defenses. Besides, I know a thing or two about slipping into Imperial garrisons unnoticed.”   
  
Buc nodded. “As am I, Commander Ors. You didn’t come all this way just to go home empty-handed. If we can help you, we’ll do everything in our power to lend you our assistance.”   
  
“I concur, Captain Dusqar,” Alik said resolutely.

“Wait!”objected Sefta. “Commander, You can’t just hand command of this cell to a pair of total strangers!”

“Need I remind you, Lieutenant,” Buc answered with a frown, “Commander Waska is the woman who leads this cell, and she can do what she feels is best for its well-being. I suggest you remember that, and remember your place in the chain of command.”

“Congratulations, Commander Ors,” Symons replied snarkily. “I’m sure you’re quite pleased with yourself, convincing our fearless Mistress and Commander into siding with your operation. But you won’t make it to the surface. The Imperials will destroy any ship that tries to enter Scarif’s atmosphere, and you’ll join your Sergeant Erso in certain death. While Commander Waska may sanction your little rescue mission, our regulations clearly state that any operation of this scale will require unanimous approval from High Command. And as long as there is no confirmation of survivors on the surface of Scarif, that will never happen.”

“Unless Commander Ors can somehow confirm the presence of survivors,’ a soft voice said. Jan turned her head, and gazed into the dark eyes of the fighter pilot who had helped defend the  _ Crow _ earlier. 

“Begging your pardon, Miss Daivik,” Symons interrupted, “but you are not a member of the command council. Therefore, you do not get a say in our affairs.”   
  
“Let the girl speak!” One of the Clone Troopers who had escorted Jan to the briefing room interjected. 

“You have no right to interrupt a member of High Command, Clone!,” Symons answered abruptly. “Under the cell’s regulations...”

“I piss on your krarking regulations!” the Clone shouted back , slamming his hand firmly against the holo-projector. “Like it or not, this is a time sensitive operation. If there  _ are  _ survivors on Scarif, every moment we delay will only bring them closer to their deaths. We can stand here and debate the semantics of authorization all we’d like, but I will not stand by while innocent lives are put at risk.”   
  
“You should have stayed retired, Clone,” Symons snapped, reaching for his blaster. “Your past battles have gone to your head. Corporal Lunt, get these two out of my sight immediately.”   
  
“Yes, Sir.”

Before Lunt could intervene, Alik glared at Symons with a cold glance. “Enough,” she said. “I appreciate your respect for formality, but Commander Callum is a member of High Command. He should be given the respect that rank deserves. You were saying, Commander?”   
  
“Lieutenant Daivik has a point, Ma’am. If we could prove, somehow, that there were survivors on the surface of Scarif, then perhaps High Command could be persuaded of the urgency of the situation?” He glared harshly at Major Symons, whose hand slipped away from his holster.   
  
“What do you think, Buc?” Alik asked.    
  
“Better than going in blind, Alik,” the Mon Calamari replied. “At least we’d have some intelligence to go off of.”   
  
“I can send in another Longprobe flight,” Della offered.    
  
“Not a wise idea,” Miri countered. “Your squadron would be downed before you reached the surface.”   
  
“So what’s the alternative?”   
  
“We go rogue, Major,” Alik replied. “Imperial shuttle, Imperial access codes, we slip in, get the intel, and slip out.”

“Sounds like a familiar strategy, Ma’am,” Kyle said. “But the Imperials will likely see it coming, especially since they had to play their entire hand just to counter Erso’s attack. Now that we know about the Death Star, they’ll have moved to secure it, and that means they won’t have that contingency plan to fall back on. Which means, by extension, that they’ll adjust their strategies to compensate.”

“So?” asked Della.

“So, if we attempt any form of direct infiltration the way Rogue One did, we're most likely going to die. The Imperials will see it coming."

"What are you talking about, Sir?" asked Della. "From what Alik was suggesting, I think it’s a well thought-out plan. The Imperials have no idea we’re coming. They have little reason to suspect an infiltration; since we’ll be entering the atmosphere disguised as an Imperial shuttlecraft.” 

“Not to mention the fact that the bastards aren't exactly in the best mind-set after what Rogue One did to them down there.” Buc added. “Given the damage they sustained, both from Sergeant Erso and later from the Death Star, any survivors must be completely demoralized."

Kyle shook his head but continued to smile. "Yes, and we'd also be dropping directly into the heart of Imperial territory. Our objective is several kilometers away from the most logical landing zone, with no cover and no way to stop the Stormtroopers on the surface from raining fire down on us once we’ve gotten the intel we need. No one in their right mind is going to volunteer for a mission like this. In that I have to agree with Major Symons: any direct landing behind the Imperial lines would amount to little more than suicide.” 

“You just volunteered, didn’t you?”   
  
“And I haven’t exactly been in my right mind since Danuta. So I guess I’m the exception.”

“Got me on a technicality,” Jan laughed, but her eyes still looked skeptical. "Imperial Stormtroopers are not the end of all things, Kyle. I've dropped into missions against a cartel of spice dealers before, and we all know they have better aim than most ‘troopers in the Empire. Alik assured me before we convened for this briefing that the strike team will be provided with proper air support, not to mention enough heavy weapons to take down most classes of Imperial walkers. Trust me when I say this: this won’t be like Rogue One’s drop a couple days ago. The Empire’s resources have already been significantly depleted by the Death Star as well as their own hubris. When we enter Scarif’s orbit, I’m confident that we’ll be better prepared than Rogue One’s people were."

Kyle raised an eyebrow at his pilot. "Have you ever seen trained Stormtroopers in action, Jan? They're nothing like the Army troopers you encountered during your time in captivity, or the new recruits that assaulted our position on Danuta. Real Stormtroopers, fully-trained, fully armed, Stormtroopers, are far deadlier, and are far less likely to have reservations about ending your life if they capture you.”

Jan nodded. “I guess I never considered that.”

“Have you ever been in combat with Stormtroopers?” Kyle continued. “Actual, sustained combat, not mere skirmishes or infiltration missions? For most of the men and women in this room, even experienced fighters like Commander Callum or Major Symons, it's impossible. There isn't a single Rebel here that can stand up to a determined Imperial advance, not even under artillery support or covered by starfighters. I've been a Stormtrooper, Jan. I’ve fought against rebel forces, as shameful as it is to admit it, and every one of them broke and ran as soon as we commenced sustained fire. Not even artillery or proton bombs will deter a company of Stormtroopers once the order to advance is given. "

He stood silent for a moment as the rest of the assembled officers gazed at him in abject horror. A dozen men and women stood stunned into utter silence as he recounted his experience in Imperial service, and Jan could hear whispers of uncertainty pass between them.

“ _ This is hopeless _ ,” she heard Sefta remark.   
  
“ _ Akin to suicide? There’s no way I can support a mission like this _ ,” another officer replied.

“Do you think there’s  _ any _ chance, Kyle?” Alik asked him. “Any possible chance of getting those survivors off the surface, if they’re even down there?”

Kyle shook his head. "Unfortunately the only solution I can possibly think of would be a costly one. The only way we’re possibly going to be able to pull this off is if we created a diversion, a means of keeping the Imperials off their objective.”

“What sort of diversion, Kyle?” Buc asked cautiously.

“They’d be a sacrifice, at best, Captain. Their entire objective would be to buy time for the main strike team to gather its information and retreat back to the safety of the  _ Liberator _ . In truth, the Imps would likely have the diversion dead before our forces are even in range to strike back. And once the diversion is gone… they’ll then turn their attention to the infiltrators."

“So you’re saying you’d throw away an entire company of troopers just to save one or two survivors?”

“No,” Kyle said firmly. “That’s Imperial thinking. Ideally, we’d use a distraction that would draw out the Imperial forces while still minimizing casualties. I simply don’t know the best means of doing that at the moment.”

“Which is why if we don’t have a plan for an extraction, we shouldn’t attempt it until we have a fully fledged plan,” Miri said. “Our first mission to the surface should only be used to ascertain the status of any survivors, as well as gather information about the Imperial defenses so we know how big of a diversion we’d need to send down to cover their retreat.”

“I agree,” Buc said. “Rogue One took unnecessary losses because Erso and Andor didn’t have a proper strategy devised prior to their infiltration. If we don’t want to share their fate, it’s not advisable to attempt an extraction like this blind, especially since we don’t know what we’re up against.”    
  
“It’s settled, then,” Alik said. “A team will be sent to Scarif to survey the surface and report back with any evidence of survivors they might find. Once we have confirmation of survivors, we will reconvene to discuss the next course of action.”

“What team?” Symons asked. “You said it yourself, Katarn. No sane man would volunteer for a mission like this.”   
  
“The cell will provide three squads of Pathfinders under Major Camasu’s direct command,” Alik said calmly. Any other assets you might need for the scouting mission will need to be recruited as volunteers. While we would love to spare more troops to help you with this mission, our numbers are already less than ideal at this particular time.”   
  
“Does anyone else care to volunteer?” Buc asked.

Callum stepped forward, motioning to the other two Clones in the room. “Wildcat Squad and I would be honored to volunteer, General Ors,” he said crisply.   
  


“It’s ‘Commander’, actually,” Jan corrected.

“He means it as a sign of endearment,” one of the others told her. “During the Clone Wars, we referred to our Jedi commanders as ‘General,’ regardless of their actual field rank.”

Jan nodded. “I see,” she said.

“If Callum’s going down there, I’m coming too,” Della said firmly. “Someone needs to watch his back.”   
  
“Only because I need to watch yours more, little sister,” Callum replied with a smile. “Plus, if we need to make a quick escape, we could use a pilot like you to help us get out of here.”

“Sure,” Della teased. “Remind me who saved your ass on Rishi twice?”   
  
“Not before I helped keep the shuttle on course,” Callum replied.

“Enough,” Buc ordered. “You two can argue semantics later when you’re planning for your coming assignment. For now let’s try to focus on the mission at hand. Commander, how long will you and Agent Katarn require to finish preparing your crew?”   
  
“Give me a day, possibly two, and we’ll have a crew suitable for the mission,” Jan promised. “Right, Kyle?” 

Kyle managed a nod, which he turned into an affirmative grunt as Alik looked his way. “Right, Jan. We’ll contact you once we’ve gotten our crew assembled. Do we have a shuttle suitable for the operation?”   
  
“You will as soon as we can reallocate one,” Alik replied. “That should be simple enough.”   
  
“Thanks for the support, Commander,” Kyle said to her. “We couldn’t do this without you.”

“We’d be doing the same, were it not for our lack of manpower, Kyle. Your mission has given us hope that something might come of our searching after all.”

Kyle nodded. “A friend of mine told me that rebellions were built on hope,” he said thoughtfully. “I’m starting to believe her now, thanks to all of this.” 

“Permission to adjourn this briefing?”

There was a general murmur of assent throughout the room, and Alik smiled at Jan as she headed towards the hatch. “Good luck, Commander Ors. May the Force be with you.”   


“I hope so, Ma’am,” Jan replied. “I truly hope so.” 


	33. Chapter Twenty-Nine

Agent Kyle Katarn, formerly of the Rebel Alliance, stood alongside Jan Ors and the Clone Trooper designated Callum, gazing through the viewports of the gallery which overlooked the  _ Liberator’s  _ hangar bay. His hands were clasped behind him, and Jan gazed into his eyes as she watched him study the movements of the Rebel technicians as they attended to the  _ Moldy Crow’s _ repairs. One hand rested lightly against his shoulder, and her dark eyes were dark mirrors of Kyle’s own emotions as the two of them stared through the thick, armored plastic.

They gazed through the viewport down into the  _ Liberator’s  _ hangar, where Kyle’s freighter sat amidst a maze of Alliance starfighters, shuttles, and other vessels. Her damaged hull was still cratered with the battle-scars and heavy damage she had sustained during her encounter with the TIE fighters, and technicians swarmed about like ants as they attended to the various repairs needed to restore her to active status.

Kyle stood motionless, watching through the armorplast, and an eyebrow quirked as he watched a pair of technicians install something unfamiliar into his ship’s starboard weapons bay. Commander Waska had mentioned that the damage the Imperials had dealt to the  _ Crow _ necessitated a major refit, but what was going on out there seemed a bit more major than the Rodian had initially anticipated. Which, coupled with the Rebel leader’s deliberate lack of detail, suggested that there was more to the repairs than the simple replacement of damaged parts, though Kyle still couldn't imagine what could be important enough to turn Waska all mysterious on him. Nor did it matter very much to him as he focused his eyes upon the damaged hulk of his beloved freighter.

The remains of the  _ Moldy Crow _ sat in the center of the nearest repair bay, her hull broken and shattered, like a toy stepped on by some careless child. The gaping hole where the starboard shield generator had been faced the window, stretched back along the damaged courier's flank in a long, ink-black wound of broken panels and melted frames. Other wounds marred the HWK’s sleek and immaculate hull, wounds from TIE fighter laser fire and internal systems failure and collision with debris. Small, some of them looked, hiding the reality of the ruin within them, but Kyle felt his eyes sting as he recalled once more the frantic nature of that desperate battle.

He blinked angrily, drew a deep breath, and straightened his spine, and his mind went back—back to the numbed moment when he and Jan had realized they'd won while the terrible fury of the last TIE fighter’s destruction at the hands of the Rebel starfighters lingered in the failing visual display. Judging by the after-action reports from Lieutenant Daisik's squadron and the limited records that had been recovered from the  _ Crow’s _ own computer banks, Kyle reasoned that his ship must have been attacked by at least ten to fifteen Imperial starfighters throughout the course of the battle, and the arrival of Daisik and her X-Wings had insured that no Imperials had survived. Even now, two days after the engagement, Kyle could close his eyes and re-imagine that cauldron of light and energy in every hideous detail and feel the same sick revulsion… intermingled with vaulting exultation and triumph… that came from those first grueling hours over Scarif.

But triumph at such cost. He bit at his lip again, feeling the pain, letting it coarse through him as a grim reminder of the costly nature of his victory. Of the ten engineers and crewmen who had accompanied the  _ Crow  _ from Yavin, eight had died. The other two had died of their injuries shortly after, and both he and Jan had sustained minor injuries during the engagement. That cost in blood and pain was terrible enough, but it was the emotional toll which had drained the most out of him. Not because the operation had reminded him of the costly mission to Danuta, but because he alone bore the responsibility for those costs. It had been his orders which had exposed the  _ Crow  _ to unnecessary fire, and his hesitation to approach Waska’s rebels which had given the Imperials time to intercept. 

He sighed, fighting to keep his anguish inside himself, cursing bitterly as a passing Alliance trooper noted his state of emotional weakness. Once again, he found himself an officer of the Rebellion. While he had taken no official rank, it was still unbecoming of him to be seen in such an emotionally compromised state, yet he could not hold back his uncertainty about the future. 

“You alright?” Jan asked. “You seem troubled.”   
  
“Out of the frying pan and into the fire,” Kyle muttered to himself. “We may have secured Alik’s assurance of her cell’s assistance, but I have my doubts we’ll be able to persuade anyone else to take our side. After all, we’re strangers to these Rebels. I doubt any of them would trust me to lead them properly.”

“I trust you,” Jan said softly. “I’m sure others will as well, if you ask them.”

“Trust goes both ways, Jan. Just because a handful of officers think we have reason to be trusted doesn’t necessarily mean their men will automatically follow us. We’d be asking them to join us on a suicide mission, a mission that would require them to risk their very lives for strangers they do not know. I know that if I were in their position, I’d have my doubts about an assignment like this.”

“And you did,” Jan reminded him. “You said so yourself to the Council.”   
  
“My father’s death was enough to convince me to come this far, Jan,” Kyle admitted. “Now, I have no idea if  _ we’re  _ going to make it out of here alive.”

“And yet you volunteered to join me anyways. Why?”

“I thought I made that clear during the briefing, Jan: I joined you and this mission because the Alliance agreed to help me find my father. But more than that, I joined you to find myself again, to see if there’s anything of the old Commander Katarn left inside me after all the hell I’ve been through since Danuta. I’m still haunted by what happened on that mission, and I suppose a part of me still wants to set that failure right. I turned my back on the Rebellion once, and I’ve never forgiven myself for that." 

She turned to face him and he hesitated slightly, pausing for a moment before he continued. “I guess… What I’m trying to say is that I suppose I've changed some since Danuta, Jan. Sometimes I wonder if I've changed so much my father is even going to recognize me, and how I'll ever be able to tell him about days like today, presuming he’s even still alive.” 

“Are you sure that’s the only reason, Kyle? Isn’t there at least some part of you that believes Jyn Erso is still alive down there?”

Kyle considered the question for a moment, looking down at the _Crow,_ then back to Jan, then back to the _Crow_ again _._ After a length of time, he looked back into her eyes resolutely. “Ah, Jyn Erso. I know little about her, or Captain Andor, or the rest of their squad of renegades. I don't really care, either, not like I would if it was you or my father or someone else close to me. ‘Jyn Erso?’ ‘Rogue One?’ The names mean nothing to me; as far as I’m concerned they’re just another group of Rebels caught up in the middle of this miserable war. But…” He paused, and Jan looked at him again.

“But…?” she repeated.

Kyle turned, placing one hand firmly on his companion’s shoulder in the same manner in which she had done before. “But if... if going to the surface and finding Erso so that she and her friends can get off of Scarif alive earns me the chance to learn what the Imperials did to my father, then I have to take that chance.”

“So what’s your problem, then? You don’t think you and I can pull this off?”

“I don’t know if  _ I _ can pull this off, Jan,” Kyle corrected. “I have no doubts about your ability, but myself… I already lost the  _ Crow _ and most of the crew from Yavin. I can’t help but ask myself how many more do we have to lose before this mission is through?”

“Excuse me, Sir,” the Clone interrupted. 

“Yes, Commander, what is it?” 

“I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation with Commander Ors, and I have something I’d like to say. War will always have its costs, and good men will always die. It’s the quality of man we lose that matters. Me? I’m a clone. One in a billion, though those numbers are dwindling by the day. If the Rebellion were to lose me, I doubt anyone except my closest brothers and perhaps Della would mourn me or sing my requiem. But a woman like Jyn Erso and a man like Cassian Andor? There are countless beings in the galaxy who would gladly trade their lives to see someone like that return to the field. Why? Because people like Erso and Andor are more than just martyrs. They’re symbols, reminders that  _ anyone  _ can rise up and take a stand against the Empire. Our cause needs people like her, Kyle, people like her and Captain Andor, and you and Commander Ors. Because a good leader is worth ten, twenty, even a hundred regular troopers. It’s a grisly sort of mathematics, the mathematics of defeat and death and slaughter, but it’s an honest truth. Soldiers will fight for good commanders, follow them to hell and back again. And believe it or not, there are men and women in this galaxy who will follow  _ you,  _ if you ask it of them.” 

Callum paused for a moment. “Do you know how many men I've lost under my command during my time as a soldier?”

Kyle shook his head. “How many, Commander?”

“Hundreds, Agent Katarn. Perhaps thousands, the Republic never liked to disclose that sort of information. But because of that sacrifice, it means that hundreds of thousands, perhaps even millions of other beings were allowed to live. And that's how simple it is, Agent. The more lives you can save, the more the mission matters in the end. If this little infiltration of yours can bring back the woman who single-handedly saved our Rebellion from the Empire, then in my estimation the costs will be more than worth it, as will anyone else who can see the value of what we’re about to do.” 

“That’s sound advice, Commander, but it doesn’t solve our immediate problem. We’re still going to need a strike team to provide a distraction while our infiltration squad goes looking for the intelligence. If I know the Imperials, their guard’s going to be raised significantly after Erso’s raid.”

“Right,” Callum nodded. “I can get part of my squad together to help support the operation, and Commander Waska has promised us a ground team as well. Given the likelihood of increased security on the ground, though, I get the feeling you’re right about the need for reinforcements if things go wrong.”

“That’s all well and good,” Jan said, “but there’s a ship down there I don’t recognize. Do either of you know anything about it?”

Kyle and Callum looked down at the hangar, where a number of Alliance vessels nestled in the various docking bays. Kyle recognized most of them-he had seen most of the ships before during his arrival aboard the  _ Liberator _ \- but one, a heavily modified Corellian freighter, stood out to him. The vessel had been modified far beyond stock specifications, with uprated weapons, armor, and shielding, and a profile that had been significantly changed from the original CEC design.

“I haven’t seen that one before either, Jan,” Kyle muttered. “When did it come in?”   
  
“A few hours ago, according to Commander Waska,” Jan replied. 

_ “A few hours ago?”  _ Kyle heard Callum mutter under his breath. _ “I didn’t expect the  _ Blade _ for at least another few days. I wonder why she’s back aboard, and why she didn’t inform anyone about her arrival?” _

“What was that, Commander?” Kyle asked. “Did you say something?”

“I think I know who we can talk to,” Callum said after a moment. “Kyle, Jan, come with me. I think an old friend of mine should be able to help us.”


	34. Chapter Thirty

**Chapter Thirty**

Although Gina Erren of Mandalore considered herself an enemy of the Galactic Empire, she did not consider herself a Rebel. She fought against the Empire, in her own way, with her own methods, but she did not do so as a member of the Alliance to Restore the Republic. She defied the will of Palpatine, but she refused to operate under the operational procedures of High Command or the Rebel Council. She was her own woman, with her own reasons to hate the Empire and their cruel regime. But she was not a Rebel.

There was once a time in Gina’s past when she would have welcomed the support of the growing Rebellion. The Alliance had everything: arms, ammunition, ships, personnel, everything an enemy of the Imperial regime could possibly need to fight against her enemy. They possessed intelligence and information far outside anything most individuals in the galaxy, and they knew how to apply operational procedures far more efficiently than any individual resistance cell could hope to dream of. And yet, in spite of all these things, Gina still refused to call herself a member of the Rebel Alliance. She was a mercenary, a hired bounty-hunter paid by Alik Waska and the Abrion System Defense Network to hunt down, capture, or, at times, eliminate designated Imperial targets.

But she was not a Rebel. 

She brushed a fleck of dust from the shoulder pad of her beskar armor as she sat quietly in one corner of the room, lifting her battle helmet just above her lips and sipping her drink with an unconcerned expression, watching her teenage companion speak with some of the other assembled officers in the mess. Corra had been incredibly anxious during their last assignment, and Gina felt a sense of relief that the child could finally relax for a while. The rigors of the girl’s training could wait until both of them had recovered from the strain the investigation of the abandoned Rishi moon outpost had placed upon them. For now, she deserved a chance to relax while Gina enjoyed a hot meal and a refreshing drink to set her mind at ease.

In a way, the Mandalorian thought to herself, the operation over Rishi was supposed to have been a routine one. The  _ Errant Blade _ had been more than up to the mission specifications, and the crew had known exactly what to expect. It had been the desolate remains of the abandoned Republic outpost that had taken them by surprise. Or, more specifically, it had been the squad of Imperial Death Troopers and the mysterious marksman who had ambushed them that had completely caught them off their guard, scattering Gina’s crew and cutting them down before they had a chance to draw their weapons. The shock of the ambush, coupled with the unstable terrain surrounding the ruins of the Republic base and the incredible skill of the Imperial hunter, had left her party trapped behind a maze of collapsed ceramacrete, unable to retreat back to their ship or radio for reinforcements. Only Corra’s skillful intervention had saved them, and she gave a knowing glance in the girl’s direction as she watched her continue her conversation with a platoon of Alliance troopers. She would thank her later, Gina decided, once she had gotten the sour taste of defeat out of her mouth. 

She looked up again, gazing at the faces of the many Rebels surrounding her- a mixture of men and women, mostly humans, with a scattering of various aliens among them, some of which she recognized and some who were foreign to her. They were a diverse band of all colors, shapes, and sizes and the weapons stowed beside them or tucked away beneath the mess-benches were as varied as the soldiers that carried them. Gina saw blasters old and new, Alliance and Imperial alike, plus some low-velocity projectile weapons, and at least one pre-Empire vibro-axe of the sort used to board enemy starships. A heavy blaster tucked under one woman’s arm also caught her attention, and she recognized it as a modified Stouker concussion rifle, of the same model used by countless Outer-Rim mercenaries and pirates. All of them seemed to ignore her presence- a few haphazard glances would occasionally be aimed in her direction, but the expressions tended to be more curious than outright hostile. These Rebels had long since gotten used to the occasional presence of the Mandalorian mercenary by now, and the fact she wore their Alliance Starbird on the sleeve of her jumpsuit seemed to be enough to divert most unwanted attention. 

Not that the symbol meant anything to Gina, she reminded herself. The scarlet insignia was a friend-or-foe-identifier to her, nothing more, for Gina Erren was a Mandalorian mercenary, not a part of the Rebel Alliance. Though she hated the Empire as much as any soldier of the Rebellion, her reasons for that hatred were more personal than political, and as such, her affiliation with Alik Waska and the Abrion cell was merely an alliance of convenience. She was a bounty-hunter, whose allegiance could be bought and sold just like any other weapon. The fact the Rebels opposed her own enemy was a simple matter of coincidence, it was the fact that they paid better than the Bounty Hunter’s Guild or most of the other local criminal syndicates which was the more relevant benefit. She needed food and the means to keep her ship functioning, and the Rebels willingly provided her with both. 

But she was not one of them. She would never consider herself one of them, for their ideals and hers aligned only superficially. While she would work for them for pay, she never intended to align with their ideals or enlist within their ranks. Though she had long despised the Empire, at her core Ghinamar’e Erren was a Mandalorian by birth, whose militant culture had long been opposed by the same Republic the Rebel Alliance sought to restore to power. 

She shook herself free of those thoughts and returned her attention to her companion, who was happily conversing with the platoon of rebels she had decided to dine with. Corra had always been fascinated with the Rebel alliance, and the fact that Gina often took Rebel contracts seemed to captivate her all the more. She would explain her own reservations about the Alliance to her one day, Gina reminded herself, but that day was not today. In this particular moment, Corra was too content, all too pleased to relay her adventures during the last mission to anyone who would willingly listen to her. Her audience of captivated Rebel troopers seemed almost entranced by her tale, eagerly asking her questions and cheering or booing as the story progressed. It was a soothing moment for them both, far from the raw intensity of the battle they had so narrowly survived, and she allowed herself to lose herself within the narrative, only wincing occasionally at the girl’s infrequent embellishments to the action.

She belonged here, Gina thought to herself. Here, among the Rebellion, not on frequent contract missions that separated her from the front lines. She was a natural fighter, whose skillful marksmanship and experience with decryption and code-breaking made her an ideal candidate for Alliance special forces. Though only fifteen, Corra had a great deal of experience dealing with Imperial entanglements, and her training under Gina had only served to further her natural abilities as a scout and intelligence agent. 

But the discussion regarding Corra’s potential plans to join the Alliance would have to wait for the time being. There were other matters to attend to: repairing the  _ Errant Blade, _ finding replacements for her crew, recovering from the injuries she had sustained on Rishi… The list was endless, and she forced herself to take another swallow of her drink and force the intruding thoughts to the back of her mind. 

_ “Do you think we’ll be able to find anyone here, Kyle?”  _ the first voice, a woman who spoke with the authoritative tone of an officer asked.

_ “I don’t know, Jan,” _ a man replied in an unconvinced voice.  _ “These are veteran Rebels. I don’t know if we’ll be able to persuade them of anything.” _

_ “I have an old friend who sometimes frequents this side of the mess,” _ a third voice said quietly.  _ “Assuming she’s here, I have a feeling she can be persuaded to help us.” _

Gina looked up, tracing the sound of the voices. A familiar looking Clone officer stood in the doorway, flanked by two people Gina had never seen before. The first, a slender, muscular woman in the uniform of an Alliance Pathfinder, glanced around the room, as if searching for someone in particular. The second, a taller man with grizzled features and a heavy leather jacket, did not share his companion’s confidence, and his eyes looked about the mess hall with a concerned uncertainty as he whispered some indiscernible information to her.

_ “You said that about Major Symons,” _ the man named Kyle grumbled.  _ “And you saw how that went.” _

_ “Symons,” _ replied the third voice,  _ “is nothing more than a stubborn old goat. Why Alik and Buc decided to keep him on the senior command staff is beyond me. But we don’t have time to keep dwelling on that. We have a mission to complete here, and we cannot allow ourselves to be distracted.” _

_ “So, Commander, who’s this old friend of yours you’ve been mentioning? From the way you’ve been describing her, she sounds somewhat… ruthless.” _ _   
_   
_ “Gina? Ruthless?” _ the man laughed.  _ “She can be one cold bitch sometimes, but I say that lovingly. She’s a Mandalorian, and while they’re known to be fearless warriors, I can hardly call them ‘ruthless.’ Unless they come from the clans that serve the Empire. From what I’ve heard, most of those traitors were defeated by another cell, but Gina and I have encountered… holdouts from time to time.” _

_ “Wait… what exactly do you mean by ‘Gina and I?’ You mean to say you’ve served with her before?” _ asked Kyle. 

_ “Yes, on numerous occasions. She and her ward Corra saved Lieutenant Daivik and I from an Imperial ambush once, and we’ve become close allies since that time. She offered me a place on her last mission, but Alik needed me here.” _

_ “Sounds like a fairly reliable contact,” _ Jan remarked.

_ “More than you know. Don’t worry about anything. I’ll talk to Gina. You two see who you can recruit on your own. If you have any trouble, come find me.” _   
  
Kyle gave the Clone a nod.  _ “Right.” _

_ “You’ll be fine. Just don’t leave the mess hall in ruins when you’re done.” _

The man named Kyle muttered something under his breath, and he and his companion slipped away in opposite directions to talk among the crowd of assembled soldiers. Gina ignored them, but she managed to catch the Clone Trooper’s eye. He walked over to her, his drink in hand, and took a seat in the chair opposite her.   
  
“I get the feeling you were looking for me,” she said simply.   
  
“What gives you that idea?” Callum replied. 

“I overheard your conversation,” she responded. “I thought ARC troopers were known for their subtlety. You were speaking so loudly the entire mess hall could probably hear you.”

“It’s a loud place,” the Clone said with a shrug, taking a sip of his drink and exhaling heavily. “It took me a while to find you. You weren’t sitting in your usual spot.”   
  
“My ‘usual spot’ was occupied,” Gina explained. “A couple of Pathfinders beat me to it, and I didn’t want to cause too much of a fuss.”   
  
“That doesn’t sound like the Gina I remember,” Callum teased, shaking his head. “I remember when you and I first met, and you slammed three of my men into the side of our landing craft before we could finally talk it out.”   


“Hard to get paid if you beat up your employer’s guards,” Gina answered. “Besides, I like the view over here.”

Callum smiled, clasping his old friend on the shoulder. “It’s good to see you again. Didn’t expect to see you quite this soon.” 

Gina said nothing; she simply lifted her helmet slightly and took a sip of her own drink. 

“I thought your last assignment wasn’t supposed to end for another week. Did something happen?”

The Mandalorian nodded her head. “The mission got kriffed up, that’s what happened. Resistance was heavier than we anticipated. I almost lost the  _ Blade,  _ and would have lost my life had Corra not arrived with reinforcements. Considering what we were up against, I’m surprised I managed to limp us back home without being totally krarked.”

Callum nodded understandingly. “That rough, eh? I always thought the great Gina Erren of Mandalore was prepared for everything.”

“The great Gina Erren of Mandalore was ambushed by an Imperial strike force three times the size of what Intelligence said it would be. Even the best preparation can’t save you from odds like that.”   
  
“Which is why I don’t tend to like people telling me the odds,” Callum laughed. “It never seems to end well.”

Gina’s eyes narrowed, and she looked at him. “I know that look, Cal. I get the feeling you didn’t come find me just to make idle conversation?”

The Clone removed his helmet, setting it on the table beside her and looking directly into her eyes. “You’re right, Gina. I’m going to need your help again, if you’re willing.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Gina cocked her head.

Callum’s tone grew more serious. “It means we have a new mission for you, Commander Erren. This one’s straight from Command.”

The Mandalorian glanced up, her expression unrecognizable behind her helmet. “Mission, Commander? What sort of mission are we talking about, exactly? Another bounty? Or is it something else?”

“A little bit of both,” the Clone replied.

Gina shook her head suspiciously. “Who’s the target? Hot or cold? You know I’m gonna need more intel than that before I start taking a job, Commander.”

Callum sighed. “You and I are taking a squad down to the surface on a reconnaissance operation. With any luck it should be a routine op, if all goes well enough. It’s the second part of the mission that concerns me.”

Gina cocked her head. “What sort of intel are we looking for? The Imps blew up everything of any significance down there. Commander Dusqar and the Longprobe squadrons have flown dozens of ops down to the surface, and not once have they found anything other than dust storms.”

Callum shook his head. “Command believes some lucky mother-kriffers managed to get to cover before the Death Star blew the place to hell. Some operatives from Yavin showed up the other day and managed to convince Alik that there’s hope of possible survivors, and now she’s managed to convince the others of the same thing. They need the best in the cell if they’re going to get the intelligence they need, and they’ve decided I’m it. So, suffice it to say, I’m looking for volunteers. You in?”

The mention of volunteers piqued Gina’s interest. She sat up abruptly, leaning forward to face the Clone trooper. “Do we have any idea where these… ‘Survivors’ might possibly be, Commander? And do we have permission to extract them?”

“I don’t think they have a krarking clue. My best guess is they aren’t on the beaches. Probably ran inland, to try and seek shelter among the ruins. It’s what my boys and I would do if I were in their place. As far as the extraction, that’s the second half of the mission I was talking about. Commander Waska didn’t give us express permission to extract the survivors, but I get the feeling Agent Katarn won’t want to go down the surface more than once. I get the feeling if we see any Rebel personnel during our little observation, we’re planning to pull them out of there immediately. No questions asked.”

The Mando nodded. “Agreed, but it's not gonna be easy finding one particular soldier, or even a group of soldiers, in the aftermath of an Imperial superweapon. Even for us. What makes you think we can pull this off?”

Callum shook his head. “If I’m being honest, Gina, I don’t think we have much of a chance. But Commander Ors and Agent Katarn think we can do it, and the pair of them have Alik’s full confidence. Besides, you’ve been waiting for your next assignment for weeks now. The pay will more than cover the cost of the  _ Blade’s  _ repairs, plus leave you with plenty to spare. If you take this job, you’ll be back to completing your usual ops before you know it.”

“If you’re volunteering, what becomes of your brothers in the company?” Gina asked. “Surely Alik wants to keep this op low-profile, and two squads of Clone Troopers don’t exactly fit that mission profile.”

“It’s simple, Gina. I take the pick of the litter and the rest remain aboard the  _ Liberator _ as a second wave, in case the mission gets kriffed up beyond recognition. I may be good, but I’m not going in with high expectations. We’re entering the heart of Imperial territory for this one, and I suspect things could go south real fast if we make too many mistakes.”

“Commander Waska took away your company?”

“It wasn't my company, it was the Alliance’s. We’re all subject to the requirements of the service, and I’ve come to accept that. How many of your crew can you spare?”

“My crew is dead, Callum. Slaughtered on our last op over Rishi, all of them. Only the kid and I made it out alive.”

The Clone hung his head. “My condolences. They were a good bunch of operatives.”

Gina frowned, changing the subject. “How many volunteers have  _ you _ managed to round up so far?”

“Katarn and Ors are taking command of the operation, so that takes care of our leadership. Della managed to talk herself into being our mission pilot, and Major Camasu’s decided to tag along, presumably to make sure the two of them stick to the plan. Alik’s assigned us three squads of Pathfinders to act as a diversion force, and I requested Wildcat Squad to help defend the shuttle. So that’s thirty or so regular troops, plus the four of us to act as the extraction team.”

“Sith-spit. You’re going to need a lot more volunteers than that. Why can’t we just send in the entire cell? The Imperial forces on the ground are probably too scattered to put up much resistance, right?”

“If those Stormtroopers are anything like my brothers in the Grand Army,” Callum remarked coldly, they’re going to fight to the last man. I haven’t seen much of them, but I’ve seen enough not to underestimate them. Besides, it’s not the men on the ground we need to worry about. It’s the bloody fleet they have blockading the planet in place of their shield gate. Even if we could get the landing force assembled, they’d be shot apart as soon as we tried to breach the blockade.”

Gina nodded. “In that case, you’re definitely going to need more than a handful of pathfinders down there. I’ll ask around, see if I can round up more volunteers for you.”

“So you’re in, then?”

“This is the way,” Gina said simply. “I’m working alongside you now, and if this is what it means to be a part of your Rebellion, then I’ll do my best to make myself useful.”

“I was never concerned about that. Do you think I might be able to meet this Agent Katarn and his friend?”   
  
Callum nodded. “You’ll meet them soon enough. Here’s the access code to get aboard the shuttle. We assemble for the mission in two days, hangar three. Bring any equipment you might need with you.”   
  
“You’re a good man, Callum.”   
  
“We ARC troopers learned from the best, Gina. There’s a reason our armor looked so similar to yours during the last war.”   
  
The Mandalorian shook her head. “I still think the Republic could have been more original with its armor designs. Their ARC armor didn’t have a chance of being as efficient as a properly formed suit of  _ beskar’gam.” _ _   
_ _   
_ “Only because you Mando bastards never gave us any beskar to make our equipment out of. Plasteel doesn’t form nearly as well.”   
  
“If I recall correctly,” Gina smiled, “Most of us ‘Mando bastards’ were fighting  _ against _ the Republic during the war.”   
  
“And you quickly bested us in almost every major engagement we found ourselves in,” Callum agreed.   
  
“Well, at least we’re on the same side  _ now,” _ Gina remarked. “I look forward to seeing the two of us take down those Stormtroopers the Empire keeps boasting so much about. Because to be frank, my friend, I’d take your inferior ARC trooper equipment over whatever the Empire thinks passes for armor.”    
  
“I don’t know who you’re insulting more: us Clones or the Empire,” Callum scoffed. “Come on, Gina, lighten up, will you? I’d think you’d at least be glad to see me. Do you talk to everyone who offers you a contract this way?”

“Humor does not win battles,” Gina said calmly. “These do.” She produced her blaster pistols and laid them on the table in front of her.”   
  
Callum shook his head. “You’re impossible,” he muttered.    
  
“And you’re ex-Republic,” Gina teased back. “Come on, I’ll buy you another drink before we go meet with your superiors.”


	35. Chapter Thirty-One

Della Daisik walked towards the group of fighter pilots gathered around the center of the mess hall. There were five of them in number, most of them clad in their flight gear. They looked at her curiously, and she saluted their commander crisply.    
  
“Morning,” she told them.   
  
“You’re a damn good fighter pilot, Della,” one of them said welcomingly. “Buc told us about your squadron’s encounter with those TIEs. From what he said, you kicked a lot of Imperial ass out there.”   
  
“All in a day’s work, Thom,” she shrugged. “I need a drink after a mission like that.”    
  
The man looked puzzled. “Even now? Two days after the fact?”

“Three,” Della corrected. “You never really get over a battle like that. Especially after you suffer the sort of losses we did out there.”   
  
“I heard about Carra,” a young pilot said softly. “Sorry for your loss. She was a good flier.”   
  
“She was,” Della replied somberly. “She gave her life for our cause, sacrificed herself so that the rest of us could complete our mission. That fact alone is comforting enough for me. Besides, I’ve been informed of an opportunity to avenge her loss.”

“What sort of opportunity?” the pilot named Thom asked.

“An escort mission over Scarif. Apparently Alik and Buc want to send a scouting team down to the surface to investigate the possibility of surviving members of Rogue One down there. I’ve been asked to fly the shuttle down to the surface for the ground team, and I’m going to need fighter cover in case something goes wrong. Seeing as you have some of the best piloting records aboard the  _ Liberator, _ I was wondering if you would be willing to volunteer?”   
  
“How do you know about our flight records, Lieutenant? They aren’t exactly public knowledge.” A Duros named Kel Arlos looked her in the eyes with an uncertain sort of gaze.

Della smiled softly at the young man. “It’s simple enough, Kel. I’m a flight leader, Buc’s a flight leader, and we talk to each other. I heard about your exploits involving that Nebulon frigate a couple months back. I never would have thought to use a proton bomb as a tracer round, but apparently you and Miss Akers did.”

“Spur-of-the-moment decision, Ma’am.” Sonja Akers replied softly. The green-eyed Alderaanian exchanged glances between Della and the Duros pilot beside her, and a somber look swept over her face. “Truth of the matter is, Kel and I almost died trying to pull that maneuver. Were it not for Travis and Ekerly, we’d never have survived the detonation. The two of them flew their ships straight in front of ours and took the brunt of the blast. To make a long story short, Lieutenant, Kel and I are here, Travis and Akerly are not, and the frigate was destroyed.” 

Della nodded her head slowly, sympathetic to what Akers had just told her. “The costs of war?”   
  
“The costs of war,” Akers replied, even more somberly. “They grow greater by the day. Every day the Empire engages us, they grow stronger, and our strength wanes.”   
  
“Which is exactly why I volunteered for this mission,” Della explained. I’m tired of just flying routine patrols and dogfighting insignificant squadrons of TIE fighters. This mission gives me a chance I’d never get in the cockpit of an X-Wing. For the first time since I joined this squadron, I’ve been given a chance to do something that doesn’t just involve killing the enemy. I get the chance to  _ save _ lives now, not just take them, and I intend to take it.”   
  
“So let me get this straight,” Thom muttered. “You’re a crack fighter pilot with the most kills in your squadron, a heavily modified X-Wing that most of the rest of us are envious of, and command of a squadron of the best fighter pilots aboard the  _ Liberator,  _ and you’re giving all that up… just to pilot a cargo shuttle?”

“That’s right,” Della said softly. “Which is why I’m going to need someone like you to cover my ass if something goes to hell, Thom. I’m counting on a proper escort if this mission is going to have a chance of going anywhere.”

Thom considered her words for a moment, pausing to take another sip of his drink. After a few moments, he extended his hand.    
  
“When you put it like that, Ma’am,” he said softly, “I’d be honored to do my part. Rogue One gave their lives for the Alliance, as did Carra and Travis and Ekerly and everyone else we’ve lost. I guess we flyboys have to stick together in times like this, wouldn’t you agree, Sonja?”   
  
Sonja nodded. “You’re right about that,” she said.

  
“In that case, I’m glad to have you. You’ll report to your flight leaders in three days, 0800 hours,” Della said. “You’ll be briefed about your role in the operation en-route.” 

“So, any ideas about what we’re calling this new flight group of ours?” Kel asked Della. “After all, not all of us are from the same squadron here.”   
  
“We’re rescuing Rogue One, aren’t we?” Sonja said. “We could always call ourselves ‘Rogue Squadron’ in their memory.”   
  
“Hate to inform you,” a short Sullustian told her from the corner, “but the name’s most likely been taken by now. I’ve heard rumors from my aunt stationed on Yavin that Massassi Cell plans to rename their Red Squadron once they manage to crack the Death Star.”   
  
“Damn Yavinites, always out to spoil our fun,” Della teased. “Are there any other suggestions?”   
  
“ _ Lightmaker _ Squadron? After that one corvette that slammed into those two ISDs during the battle?”   
  
“Again, Yavin beat us to it,” Thom replied. “It seems that the best names relating to the battle over Scarif have already been taken by the powers-that-be.”   
  
“Lucky bastards,” Kel scoffed. “We’re going to need  _ some _ sort of callsign that isn’t “Raven-Starburst-Womp Rat. Just merging all our squadron names into one is going to take way too long to say if we get into a scrap.”   
  
“I think I have a suggestion,” a voice said confidently. The pilots looked up to see Alik Waska sitting calmly beside them at the bar. The Rodian’s eyes were fixed on the data-pad in front of her, and she sipped the drink in her hand casually. “Do any of you know the codename for the plans that Sergeant Erso and Captain Andor relayed from Scarif?”   
  
The pilots shook their heads. “We weren’t in-system when they were transferred to the  _ Profundity _ ,” Thom told her. “I don’t think any of us would know information like that.”   
  
“The program was called  _ Project Stardust, _ ” Alik informed them. “At least, as far as I can understand.”

“And how exactly would you know something like that?” Kel asked. “You may be our commanding officer, but that has to be some sort of classified information that wasn’t just openly handed out to anyone. I mean, it’s not like you’ve actually seen the Death Star plans for yourself, have you?”   
  
Alik shook her head. “I haven’t seen them myself, no,” she told him, “But my contact on Yavin has. He provided me with a basic briefing about the Rogue One operation prior to issuing the orders which led our guests to rendezvous with us. During our meeting, he kept bringing up the name  _ Stardust _ over and over, which led me to assume from contextual clues that he was referring to the Death Star.”

“Damn she’s good,” Della muttered to herself.

“ _ Stardust Squadron _ does have one hell of a ring to it,” Thom smiled. “As long as Yavin isn’t using the name, I actually quite like the sound of it.”   
  
“Do you know if they’re using the name?” Sonja asked the Sullustan. 

“As far as I know, they are not,” he replied.    
  
“Well, everyone, what do you think of the name?”   
  
“I think it’s brilliant,” Commander Waska told them, “which is why I planned on using the name  _ Stardust  _ as the codename for our entire cell. After all, isn’t it because of Rogue One that we decided to come together to create this little rebellion of ours?”   
  
The pilots nodded. “So you’re saying we can’t use the name, then, Ma’am?”   
  
“Oh, I’m not a fighter pilot,” Alik informed them. “You can call your squadron whatever you damn well please. Just don’t be surprised if Buc also likes the sound of the name and tries to name his squadron the same thing. He’s often like that, trust me, I know.”   
  
“Lucky for us that three out of five of the pilots here are part of Buc’s squadron, Ma’am,” Thom said with a smile. “If a number of his pilots say they like the suggestion, I’m sure he’ll take it into consideration.”   
  
“Right,” Alik smirked. “I’ll let him know what you think of the idea. Until then, as commanding officer of the cell, I unofficially bestow the name  _ Stardust Squadron _ upon your little group of pilots here. Good luck to you all in the coming mission, and may the Force be with you.” 


	36. Chapter 36

“What do you think of them, Miri?” Alik Waska asked as the two women made their way towards the turbolift.

“Honestly, I don’t know what to think, Commander,” replied Miri Camasu, glancing down at the data-slate in her hand containing the briefing information. “The woman, Ors, isn’t it? She seems trustworthy enough, but it’s Katarn that concerns me.” 

“Why, because he was once a Stormtrooper?” Alik frowned. “We have a lot of ex-Imperial troopers in this cell. And all of them have proven their loyalty to our cause, one way or the other. I’m certain that Katarn can be trusted as well.”

“I’ve done some research,” Miri mused. “Apparently he was a stellar cadet at the Imperial Academy before he turned. According to my sources, he was studying intelligence and cybernetics systems theory as a cadet.”

“How exactly did a promising intelligence agent like Katarn end up in the Stormtrooper Corps?” Alik wondered. “It doesn’t seem like a natural fit.”

“Hate to inform you, Ma’am.” Miri laughed, “but the Empire isn’t known for being the most logical of organizations. The Imps probably underestimated his potential… either that, or Katarn himself wanted to get away from the Academy to kill Rebels. After all, you know how eager our own young recruits are to get into action. We have to hold a lot of them back to keep them from getting killed.”

“Point,” Alik nodded. “Though Katarn didn’t strike me as a ruthless killer. Efficient and experienced, yes, but not ruthless. None of the reports I could find mentioned Katarn or his men killing unarmed prisoners or committing any of the other atrocities other Stormtroopers have been known for.”

“You looked through the reports too?” Miri asked. 

“I looked through everything Yavin had on the man before I approved his mission with Draven’s men. From what I could tell, he’s a man of many talents. Stormtrooper, spy, smuggler, mercenary, there isn’t a lot he hasn’t done. And given our present circumstances, that’s exactly the sort of man we’re going to need to complete this assignment.”

“You just want an ex-Imperial down there to help get the rest of our people through their security checkpoints.” Miri said bluntly. “Don’t try and hide it, Alik. I’ve known you for years now. You don’t see anything in Katarn outside his immediate usefulness to us in the moment.”

“You don’t know everything about me, old friend,” Alik replied with a sarcastic smile. “You’re right, my current intentions with Katarn revolve around the mission to Scarif. But given his record and his experience… he might be the one we need to fill Sienna’s spot after she went missing.”

“I thought we agreed we weren’t supposed to talk about Sienna. That mission is specifically off the record now, isn’t it?”

“You hold the same clearances I do, we’re best friends, and I just gave you authorization to bring it up. Commander’s prerogative.”

“Sometimes I’m jealous that you can just pull rank on people like that,” Miri laughed, giving her superior a playful jab with her elbow. “There are times I really wish I had that kind of authority.”

“You do, to some extent,” remarked Alik, returning Miri’s gesture. “But if I’m being honest, this Katarn possesses a lot of Sienna’s qualities. He’s experienced, competent, proficient in all the skills needed to complete her mission parameters. About the only thing he doesn’t have is her equipment, but the gear he has is perfectly serviceable. Honestly, I’m surprised we didn’t try to recruit him sooner.”

“Which is exactly what concerns me, Alik,” Miri replied. “He’s too cut out for the kind of work Sienna did. I don’t like saying this, especially given the circumstances of her disappearance, but maybe her position shouldn’t be filled? We don’t know what happened to Sienna, and given what we know about the mission she was doing for us before everything went to hell, the thought of putting a man like Katarn in charge of an assignment like that makes me incredibly uneasy.”

The Rodian shook her head. “Why, you think he’d turn on us? You saw how eagerly he volunteered when Ors asked him if he wanted to join her team. Besides, you’ve seen his Alliance record as much as I have. If Kyle Katarn intended to go back to the Empire, he would have already done so.”

“He’s ex-Fulcrum,” Miri added. “You know how shifty they can be. It was hard enough to ensure Sienna’s loyalty, given the unique situation on her homeworld. But at least she made her intentions known from the very beginning. With the number of uniforms Katarn has worn over the years, it’d be all too easy for him to slip back into his old ways if the price was right.”

“Which is exactly how Yavin ensured his loyalty,” Alik countered. “They paid him off in exchange for his services against the Empire, which allowed them to use his hatred of his former employers to their advantage. As long as Massasi Cell gave Katarn enough credits and the chance to strike back at the Empire, both sides benefitted. Katarn got his pay and a chance for revenge, Yavin got a well-trained and efficient intelligence agent.”

“He wasn’t always a paid mercenary,” Miri said bluntly. “There was a time that Katarn wore our uniform, even fought in some major battles as an officer. But then he went running off to Danuta, disobeying Draven’s direct orders, and got most of his people killed so that he could steal some engineering schematics.”

“That’s not entirely true, Ma’am,” a soft voice interrupted. Alik looked in the direction of the speaker, only to be faced with Jan Ors, who stood with Commander Callum and a pair of his Clones on the opposite side of the corridor. 

“What was that, Commander?” Miri asked.

“Sorry for interrupting, Major,” Ors apologized. “I couldn’t help but overhear your discussion about Danuta. What you said about Agent Katarn isn’t entirely accurate.”

“How so?”

“It’s true that Katarn disobeyed his orders, but he didn’t just do it for glory or out of defiance. According to what I heard, there were suspicions that a member of the Danutan resistance had plans to defect to the Empire. Agent Katarn intercepted a transmission from the suspected traitor to the Imperial garrison, and figured he could kill two womp-rats with one stone. By attacking the garrison, he planned to force Danuta’s Resistance into battle, denying the traitor the opportunity to enact the plans he had mentioned in the transmission. Unfortunately for Katarn, though, the traitor managed to do a significant amount of damage. He would have succeeded in his plans, but one of Katarn’s allies managed to find the traitor and kill him.”

“Then it was fortunate for both Danuta and Agent Katarn that he had such a reliable ally,” Alik told her with a smile. “Perhaps we misjudged his character.”

“Perhaps you did,” Ors added uneasily. “In any case, he has a chance to set things right now. Once we get the Scarif survivors back, the Alliance will forgive him for his supposed transgressions on Danuta. Then maybe the rumors you heard about him can finally be laid to rest.”

“Then for his sake and ours, Jan,” Alik told her with a smile, “you and Kyle had best keep your minds on the mission. I don’t know who his stalwart ally was during the Danuta mission, but if he isn’t with Kyle now, I’m certain Agent Katarn can use all the help he can possibly get.” 

“Thank you, Ma’am,” Ors replied, turning to leave. Miri touched her gently on the shoulder, and the young woman paused.

“Is something the matter, Major?” she asked.

“You seem to know a lot about the Danuta mission, Miss Ors,” Miri said. “Out of curiosity, did you happen to be part of his strike team during that particular raid?”

Jan nodded. “Yes, Major. I was part of that damned raid, though in hindsight I wish I hadn’t.”

“And did you happen to meet the man who saved Katarn’s life during the battle? He sounds like a fascinating character in his own right. I’d love to hear more about him, if you’re willing to tell us.”

“I…” Jan paused. “I met him, but we didn’t get the chance to converse much. Everything happened so fast, the attack, the traitor, the extraction. We didn’t have a chance to talk about much of anything before we joined battle.”

“Well, in any case, I hope they gave him a medal for saving Katarn’s life,” Alik said. “He deserved it for his courage.”

“Right,” Jan muttered. “In any case, I’d best get back to the mission.” She gave the two women a salute and hurried down the corridor after the Clones.

“At least we know Ors’ loyalty,” Miri commented. “She seems like a stellar operative.”

“Indeed,” replied Alik. “She’s a good candidate to lead this operation.” 

***

It had been two days since their arrival aboard the Liberator and Jan felt her body starting to relax for the first time, in as long as she could remember. Here, there were no threats lurking around every corner. No fight for food and shelter, no blasters concealed beneath every sleeve or constant looking over her shoulder to make sure she wasn’t being followed. There was a sense of security here, among these Rebels, and she found herself holding her breath less often, reaching for her sidearm far less frequently. 

Kyle had changed, too, during these past few days. His features, once harsh and stern and hardened by the bitter memories of Danuta, she now noticed a new softness in his face. His brow knit less, and he didn’t grind his teeth as much, or swear bitterly to himself under his breath as he read over his briefings. He looked around the interior of the Venator’s hangar with boy-like wonder, walked slowly for the first time in his life, and had finally stopped sleeping with his blaster tucked under his pillow. It was as though the knowledge they were behind friendly lines had softened them both, made the cruel realities of their mission that much easier to bear. 

For the first time since Danuta, Jan felt as though her life wasn’t being conducted in a rush. She felt like there was a lifetime to recover from, but here she could lower her defenses, take her responsibilities one day at a time without constantly having to accomplish some objective or the other. This was the first time in an eternity she could expose her vulnerabilities to someone, the first time she could lower her guard without compromising her very livelihood and safety. 

But there was one secret she’d managed to keep that had haunted her this whole time. She had never told Kyle what had happened the day of his infiltration of the Danuta complex, before she found him alone on the landing platform waiting for extraction. It hurt her not to tell him, but she was afraid telling him would make it worse. He had done his best to push away those memories, and to open those old wounds again would compromise too much. Besides, they had just recently reformed the bond of trust between them. She could not bear the thought of betraying him again by relaying the truth of her part in the failed operation. With the Scarif landing only days away, any mention of the last mission would only sever the bond between them, at a time where it needed to be strengthened. 

And so, she kept it to herself, allowed the haunting feeling of betrayal to gnaw away at her mind as she struggled about her duties. Her hands shook, she had trouble focusing, and her breath was short and quick. She felt her stomach writhe and twist about, winding into knots, and when she closed her eyes, she could still envision the moment as clearly as if it had happened yesterday. There was no easy way to explain how she had been directly responsible for allowing an Imperial sympathizer to board her ship and relay the plans for the entire Danuta operation to the Imperial garrison, thereby compromising the entire mission. 

“Are you alright, Jan?” Kyle asked softly as he entered the room. He unslung his blaster rifle and propped it against the wall before settling himself on the bed, propping up his feet and looking over to where she stood, her eyes clearly distraught. 

Jan said nothing. Although she heard him clearly, she elected to remain silent. 

He rounded her in the room, and her eyes were glassy as she stood still. He tried to follow her line of vision and found nothing. 

“Escaren was a traitor,” Jan’s voice shook as she finally spoke. “Our contact with the Resistance on Danuta.”

Kyle had heard these words once before, muttered under Jan’s breath during their flight to Scarif, and he paused. They had never discussed it, but experience in the field had taught the agent that it was better to talk a traumatized operative through their flashbacks to help them make sense of their meaning. During all their prior exchanges, Jan had never been prone to flashbacks or lapses in her memory, but whatever this was, it was clearly impacting her significantly. 

“Who betrayed you, Jan?” Kyle asked. The pair of them had exchanged a brief discussion of this exact moment during the debriefing on Yavin, he was almost certain. But he was patient. He knew from his own experiences after the Danuta operation that recovering from these sorts of things took time, and if Jan needed to work through this memory, whatever it was, it must be important. 

Uneasily, the pilot turned over her shoulder to look at him. “Escaren,” The man’s name rolled off her tongue with a bitter taste. 

Kyle felt the blood drain from his face and the wind knocked from his lungs as he heard the word leave Jan’s lips. “Colonel Escaren?” he repeated, just to be certain he had heard her correctly. Or that she was speaking of the commanding officer of the Danutan resistance movement, and not some other soldier named Escaren. 

“When I was pulling the Crow away from your infiltration site, I heard blaster fire coming from one of the cargo bays,” Jan paced around the room. “When I entered the cargo bay, I heard someone speak my name, and as I turned around, Escaren was standing behind me, blaster in hand.” 

Jan wrung her hands nervously as she spoke; Kyle could tell she was focused on the clear image of her memory. He could feel his blood begin to boil, but before he could spill over with his own anger, he bit his tongue. How dare the head of the Danutan resistance, a known partisan and enemy of the Empire, sell out to the very people he and his cause had sworn to defeat? His first instinct was his rage and anger—that Escaren would turn his back on his supposed cause and defect to the Empire. But then he was angry with himself for not being there to help Jan. For trusting the Danutans so absolutely, for allowing his own objectives to blind him to the signs of the man’s treachery. 

And then he was calm. He needed to be. Jan needed him to be. Her shoulders shook as she held back tears. He gently stopped her and took her hand in his own. Her eyes were glassy and she wouldn’t look at him. 

Her brow knit, “Escaren said that the Rebellion was a dying cause, that any attempt to undermine Palpatine’s authority was a suicidal venture.” 

Kyle gasped. 

“And how the Death Star would soon become the ultimate power in the galaxy,” Jan said softly.

Kyle gently touched the back of her hand with his thumb, grounding her as she worked through the memory. The eyes that were usually so confident now looked to him with desperation, as though somehow pleading for him to end their pain. Bitterness, sadness, betrayal, all of these emotions were plastered on Jan Ors’ face, and Kyle Katarn fought to retain his composure as the tempest of her emotions swept over him. 

“And then, in one quick moment he readied his blaster and pointed it at me,” Jan continued. “I was staring down his pistol as he threatened to kill our entire crew if I didn’t hand over our plans for the infiltration.” 

She turned to look at Kyle, “I wasn’t scared, Kyle. I’m a Fulcrum agent; I’ve had plenty of blasters pointed at me before.”

Kyle swallowed hard, biting his lip to keep his strength. These were words she shouldn’t even have to say. He couldn’t imagine the terror of an unhinged man pointing a gun at Jan. 

“He demanded that I contact you, recall you to the ship so that he could capture us both,” Jan said softly as she gazed out the viewport at the distant stars. “But I wasn’t going to be swayed so easily. I wasn’t going to get both of us killed, but there was nothing I could do. He had me cornered, and I had only one way out.” 

Kyle’s mouth gaped. His heart pounded in his chest, and he hung on to every word she said. 

“I had no choice, Kyle.” Jan clutched her hand to her chest. “I had two options: surrender our plans, or watch as this madman killed me and then destroyed your only chance to escape. I knew I had to keep the Crow intact, had to buy you enough time to complete your objective and get out. So, I lied. I told him that our coms were down, that any attempt to alert the Imperial garrison using our equipment would trigger a self-destruct that would kill us both. But the bastard wasn’t swayed. Finally, after he had his men kill the rest of the crew in front of me, I surrendered. I handed over the communications codes, and… and you know the rest. The Imperials learned your plan, the mission failed, you were nearly killed. The only good that came of it was the fact Escaren was killed before he could arrest me personally.”

Kyle cocked his head. “And how did you manage that?”

“Concealed wrist-blade,” she said simply. “You’ve always asked me if I’ve ever used the thing, and now you know. I did use it, rammed it straight through the bastard’s throat when he attempted to have his way with me. I never could get all the bloodstains out of that uniform.” 

“Which explains why the extraction took longer than expected, and why you were so bloody and beaten when I finally got back aboard.” 

Jan nodded, still saying nothing, and Kyle was silent as he watched her. Jan stood by the window and gazed down at the point of her concealed dagger. 

“I quickly made peace with the fact that I had sold you out to save myself, but I was determined not to let that moment of weakness get both of us killed. I alone am responsible for the failure over Danuta, Kyle. And for that… for that I’m very sorry.” 

Kyle searched for something to say. He had no idea Escaren had managed to slip aboard the Crow during the morning of the mission, let alone that he had threatened Jan, all while he selfishly set his eyes on the Death Star plans and ventured into the Imperial complex. 

Jan stared into Kyle’s eyes as he took a seat on the edge of the bed beside her. 

“And yet you still decided to come back for me?” Kyle asked. “Even after all the shit I put you through, after I directly chose to disobey the Alliance Council and conduct an unauthorized mission?” 

“I had no choice,” Jan said softly. “I didn’t know what else to do. You had led us successfully up to that point, there was no reason to just abandon you to the Empire, in spite of what you’d said the night before.” 

Kyle watched her as her brow knit. 

“You didn’t make things easy, Kyle. I still maintain you were being a stubborn ass, and I will die defending that claim. But you had a point to prove. If we hadn’t gone after the plans, who knows what could have happened. In war, risks have to be taken, and if I had realized there was more to your plan than just a lust for glory, I probably would have sided with you on it.” 

Kyle paused, thinking back to the night before the mission. It had been a tense confrontation, a bitter exchange of words that had left both of them cold towards one another. She had accused him of putting his own desire for information about the Death Star ahead of everything else, that his disregard for orders was only going to get them killed. In response he had pulled rank, ordering her to comply with his fools’ errand and conduct the mission in spite of her objections. The two had said nothing to one another during the first hours of the mission, and he sighed heavily as he remembered the look of utter defeat which had filled her eyes. 

He pursed his lips as he held back tears, knowing now she had come to him for comfort. 

“Jan, I had no idea,” he said softly. 

She turned quickly to look at him, “I know.” 

“You had every right to be upset with me,” he told her. “I was being unreasonable, and you did the responsible thing and called me on it. I guess I didn’t take it that well.” 

“No, Kyle, you were just holding to your convictions,” Jan replied. “You made up your mind that you were going to take the fight to the Empire, and that was that. To you, official orders were less important than the potential threat of the Death Star, and it was up to you to do what the rest of the Alliance was afraid to admit.” 

“Forgive me for being too much of a rebel,” Kyle laughed. 

The color was starting to return to her cheeks as she teased him. He held out a hand and she crossed the room to sit on the bed beside him. 

For a moment, Jan gently rested her head on his shoulder as tears rolled down her cheeks. Kyle gently ran fingers through her hair as she quietly sobbed. The stoic leader of the Rebellion was no longer standing in the room. The warrior had vanished, leaving the uncertain girl from the peaceful world of Alderaan sitting in her place. 

Kyle cleared his throat, “Why did you wait so long to tell me? And why mention it now?” 

Jan hesitated, “I wasn’t sure how you would react if you knew. We have our own mission to worry about, I didn’t want to burden you with all my baggage from the last one. As for why… well, I suppose I didn’t want to fail you now like I did then.” 

Kyle pulled her closer, holding her tight for a short moment. “If anything, I’d hate to be the Imperials we’re about to run into. Now that I know you’re serious about using that blade of yours, those motherkriffers aren’t going to stand a chance.” 

Jan laughed ever so slightly, wiping at her face, but Kyle’s face remained solemn. “So that’s why you talked me into this operation, why you were so insistent you needed my help? All so you could make up for your betrayal during the last one?” 

“More or less,” Jan replied. 

“You were deceived and betrayed,” he said simply. “There is nothing I need to forgive. If anything, I should be grateful that you were so good with that dagger and so convincing with your distraction. You bought me plenty of time, long enough for me to reach the vault and download a fraction of what I was looking for.” 

“I’ll make it up to you this time,” Jan promised. “Let’s try to put all this behind us, at least until we finish this mission.”

“Agreed,” Kyle answered.  He wrapped his arms around her and felt her breathing slow to the same rate as his. She took him in her arms, and they settled down beside one another, letting the weight of Danuta slip from their shoulders.


End file.
